


Innocence Within

by Alliswell



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Botched Hijacking, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, In Panem AU, Memory Loss, Mention of torture, Mockingjay Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliswell/pseuds/Alliswell
Summary: Prompt #59 of the Everlark Fic Exchange on Tumblr: Lighthearted Canon-Divergent, Snow's Hijacking backfires, reverting Peeta to a childlike state, where he pulls on Katniss' braids, and draws her pictures to let her know that he Likes-Likes her. By: @elaine-spades."It hits me immediately, Haymitch and I are the only family Peeta has now, whatever is wrong with him, it'll be up to us to deal with.”Peeta has been rescued from the Capitol, Katniss will do her best to help The Boy with Bread come back to her. Or the one where she stays to help Peeta get better.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own THG or it's characters. 
> 
> Big huge thank yous to: elaine-spades for the awesome prompt, and to my amazing beta RunOn (kleeklutch@tumblr.com), this story wouldn't be here without you.
> 
> Note of caution: the prompt calls for lighthearted, but the longer I wrote, the angstier the story got... but I promise it'll get sweeter too.

I rush into the room where Peeta is being held, and I'm disappointed my face is not the first one he saw once he opened his eyes.

There's a group of doctors crowding around him, flashing lights into his eyes, taking his pulse, checking other responses to stimuli, but I see the moment he sees me.

His eyes widen, there's a deep intake of air he holds longer than normal, and his cheeks turn a violent shade of red. As soon as he set eyes on me, they flit away bashfully.

Curiously enough, this simple act immediately triggers a memory in me, one that has never been too far from my mind, still is odd I'm transported to a terribly cold, rainy day, where the same blue eyes saw me with the same shock, except, then the shock faded into a determination I became all too familiar with in the last year, instead of the pure wonder flooding his confused eyes right now.

"Peeta," His name falls out of my lips without even thinking of it, and his eyes flash back to mine even wider than before, just to avert shyly once more, although not for long.

He keeps throwing timid glances my way every other second, and one of the doctors approaches us.

"Soldier Everdeen, Mister Abernathy, please follow me a moment. I promise you'll get a chance to catch up with Patient Mellark promptly."

"Can it wait?" I protest instantly, they can't possibly believe I'll leave Peeta's side now that he's been returned to me, but Haymitch grabs me by the shoulders and maneuvers me out of the room, just as the doctor's lips form a sympathetic line that I already hate.

"Better do as they say, Sweetheart." Haymitch whispers close to my ear, "We're still playing the game here, remember the one rule I gave you at the beginning: don't fight them, do whatever they say."

I try to shake his hold off of me but his fingers dig painfully in my arms, holding me in place until we hear the doctor stepping next to us. I take the opportunity to wiggle out of Haymitch's grip, and round on the Doctor before he has any time to step away.

"What's so important that you dragged us away from him?" I spit unnerving the man.

"Sweetheart, you wanna be here or elsewhere? It can be arranged." Haymitch threatens before pulling me back next to him. "She ain't winning any prizes in the congeniality department, but the girl is right," he directs at the doctor next, "What's happening? What's wrong with the boy?"

For the untrained ear, Haymitch's voice sounds brusque and unyielding, his gray Seam eyes piercing and dangerous, but I know him. He's worried too.

The doctor clears his throat, and flexes his fingers around a metal clipboard encasing what I can assume is Peeta's medical record.

"In preliminary examination, there are the obvious signs of malnutrition, fatigue from sleep deprivation, bruises from continuous beatings, and other signs of torture and abuse, we've yet to finish cataloging." He stops and inhales a big breath.

I take the small pause to brace myself for whatever else he's about to say, because I haven't been able to stop cringing at the growing list of superficial horrors inflicted on Peeta's body but I know he wouldn't have started with the worse news, my mother never did when treating patients, this doctor won't be any different, he thinks he's easing us into the truly horrific stuff.

"Mister Mellark hasn't spoken much, but in the little communication we've managed so far, there's clearly an issue with his cognitive responses. We won't be able to give you a definitive answer until our team of doctors have had a chance to conduct a more in depth interview, but it's safe to say, the articulate, clever spoken Peeta Mellark you are used to, is fairly absent. Until we have more time to run tests, we won't be able to determine how much damage has been done to patient Mellark, nor how."

My heart sinks deep down into the pit of my stomach. My guts twist uncomfortably, and I think I'm gonna be sick. I have no idea what to expect, I look up from the doctor to the glass doors separating us from Peeta and the medical staff tending to him.

I swallow thickly, then turn to the doctor again, "Can we talk to him?" I can't hide the pleading in my voice, not as long as I'm trying to hide the tears pricking at my eyes.

With a nod, Haymitch and I get all the permission we need and head back into the room. A nurse is helping Peeta back into his a chair, while another is fluffing his pillow for him and putting a fresh set of flimsy blankets on the bed. I take a moment to study him, cataloguing every bruise, cut and scratch his clothes can't cover and I feel the familiar hatred for Snow spike tenfold deep in my chest.

Haymitch gives me a little tap on the shoulder blade, reminding me to keep walking, I grimace at him but mutely obey. Once I'm standing a foot away from the bed, the nurses and doctors take a step back, so we can approach.

It hits me immediately, Haymitch and I are the only family Peeta has now, whatever is wrong with him, it'll be up to us to deal with it.

"Hi, Peeta." I say quietly.

The blue eyes I've dreamed about so much since the botched attempt at escaping the arena, look back at me, wide, incredulous.

"H-hi!" He rasps and looks at his hands, twiddling on his lap.

I look at the doctor who spoke to Haymitch and I about something not being right, and he nods his head again, encouraging me to continue.

"Mmm, how... how are you feeling?" I ask unsure. I'm terrible at conversations.

He shrugs. "'M okay, I guess." His eyes flit back and away from my face to his hands, his cheeks sporting an ever growing blush.

"Okay. Can I sit with you?" I ask impulsively.

He stares at me in surprise, and nods his acceptance, so I climb on the bed and pat the space next to me, inviting him to climb on as well.

"So, are you... hungry?" I ask him at a loss for a better topic. Hunger, I understand, is a topic I know very well, so I go with that.

He shakes his head and his eyes continue to flit back and forth.

"Do you... have any questions?" I try again.

That finally causes him to keep his eyes on me. They roam all over my face, as if he's in awe or something.

"You're Katniss Everdeen," It's more of a statement than a question.

I'm aware of my frown, but I can't help it. He sounds both awestruck and incredulous. He knows perfectly well who I am.

I look back at the doctor and then at Haymitch, but ultimately realize that they are equally puzzled. I won't get any help from them, so I plow on.

"Y-yes. I'm Katniss Everdeen. Do you remember who that is?" I ask pointing at Haymitch.

Peeta nods, and says, "Haymitch Abernathy, District Twelve's Victor."

"You're a Victor too, Boy. Did you forget?" Haymitch's voice sounds more strained than I expect it to be.

"No. Yes. I'm not really sure." He says embarrassedly, scowling away. "It's all screwy in my mind. They-- they made it all scrambly in there." He says pointing a finger at his temple, looking a little desperate.

"It's alright, Peeta. You're here now, and you're safe. We... we will help you get things straight in your head," I tell him, taking his hand in mine.

He startles at my touch, his eyes widening as he stares at my face and quickly at our linked hands.

I'm self conscious about it, so I try to pull my hand away but he tightens his hold, trapping the tips of my fingers within his.

His eyes soften the longer he holds my hand in place, until they flit away from me, shyly. His voice is barely a whisper when he speaks, "You used to wear your hair in two braids, instead of one."

"Yes," I croak.

He reaches to take my messy braid between his thumb and index finger slowly sliding them to the tip.

The memory of this conversation is too raw for me to handle, but I'm surprised when he doesn't follow with how he fell in love with me our first day of school, and instead, tells me a new story.

"I remember the day you started wearing it in the one braid." He says with a soft smile ghosting over his lips, "it was the first time you traded a squirrel with my father. You had an orange dress on, except I knew from having seen you in it before, it was supposed to be a faded yellow. This time, it was covered in tiny specks of red, I thought it was spray from when you skinned the squirrel, since you told my father, very proudly, you did it yourself, and my father praised your amazing job, and paid you a whole loaf of wheat bread. I will never forget the feeling. I knew you'd be okay and you wouldn't starve to death anymore."

He stops and I'm at a loss for words. I wish I could ask him if that's how orange became his favorite color, but I just can't make myself say anything. I'll start crying and this is not the time for that, but then his blue eyes lose the hazy film of reminiscing, and he stares at me openly for the first time.

"You promise?"

"Promise what?" I ask uncertain with a broken voice.

His sweet, pleading eyes fixed on me, "You'll help me get things straight in my head?"

I scowl, not at him, but at the shakiness in his usually steady hands.

"We all will," I tell him firmly, "Haymitch and I, and everyone here. We will help you in anything you need." I give Haymitch a glance and see him nodding slowly.

"Okay," Peeta sighs with relief. "Good!" He smiles then, and the sight makes me so happy, I surge up to hug him.

"Is so good to have you back," I whisper into his neck.

If it wasn't because the thinness of his frame alarms me so much, I'd be worried about how rigid his body goes in my arms, but he relaxes a little, and I can tell he's sucking in as much warmth from me, as I am from him.

We needed this.

We needed the closeness. It's been too long without our arms wrapped around each other. I squeeze him to me before stuttering a breath, and letting him go when I feel Haymitch's hand heavy on my shoulder.

"Th-thank you. For that. I think, I needed it." Peeta says averting his eyes. He frowns a little, and his eyes lift to scan the room. After a moment of looking around, his whole face scrunches up.

He asks the doctors in the steadiest tone I've heard from him since arriving, "Where are my parents?"

I can't really tell if he's confused, worried or angry they're not here.

"Shouldn't my parents be here?" He asks the doctor again, this time accusingly.

"Boy, your parents can't be here. I'm sure your father would've been the first one here if he could've. But, for now, Katniss and I will have to do. Is that alright?"

Peeta stares at Haymitch. I've seen that look before, the way his eyes first go round with shock and slowly turn determined. It's the same look he had the day he burned the bread for me. The day he forever linked himself to me.

He nods, accepting this.

"In time, we will tell you anything you wanna know. For right now, you rest. Deal?" Says Haymitch.

Peeta's answer is clear. "Deal."

The doctor takes the opportunity to jump in a start giving orders to his staff. I'm must surprised when a sandwich appears out of nowhere, and is shoved into Peeta's hand along a cup of something thick and slimy I believe to be a very unappetizing version of oatmeal.

Peeta seems dazed and a little sleepy, so I sidle up to him, while the nurses and doctors move around him in a blur. I make sure he eats every morsel of his meal, who knows when was the last time he ate anything, let alone, the next time anyone will procure him something to eat out of Thirteen's strict schedule.

By the time his room starts to empty, his eyelids are heavy and his head starts to droop.

"Can he lay down now?" I ask one of the nurses.

The woman looks at me as if noticing I was there for the first time, and frowns; "I guess that's fine?" She answers, "Let me see what the doctor says," she moves away before I can demand anything else, and returns almost as fast. "You may help him to bed." She says in a clipped tone that I don't particularly care for.

I bite my tongue, since this isn't the time to make a scene, and help Peeta lay back into his hospital bed.

He's so light, I have no problem holding him to me, while he rests his weight on my side while I pull the sheets back for him. I want to cry at the realization that this shouldn't be easy at all; I had so much trouble trying to roll him into the creek when I found him wounded during our first arena, and he was thin then! He shouldn't weigh as little as he does. I shouldn't be able to feel the ridge of his spine with my fingers so easily, nor I should be able to curl my arm around his waist and see my fingertips on top of his hip bone on the other side. But again, I bite my lips and tuck him in quietly, swallowing the bile pooling in my throat until I'm alone and safe in some dark maintenance closet far from here.

"There," I say softly, brushing my hand on his forehead once he's tucked in bed. "Go to sleep now, okay."

Peeta nods, eyes fluttering shut with much tiredness.

I stay by his side until his breathing evens out, lightly brushing his hair back from his forehead. His curls are slightly dampened, and I notice his body to be clean, as well as his hospital clothes. I think someone may have washed him off before changing his clothing, I wish I knew who did it, so I could thank them. I owe them for that.

"Come on, Sweetheart. The Boy won't be going anywhere, and I left instructions for the two of us to be contacted if there's any need."

"I wanna stay," I will myself not to cry, my eyes glued to Peeta's sleeping face.

Haymitch sighs. "Here, at least sit down." He grumbles pulling up the chair Peeta sat in earlier. "I need to go check on the other rescued kids. Don't do anything dumb." He grunts and leaves the room, lingering at the door for a moment.

I know I should feel more responsible for the others as well, but right now, I'm finally holding the hand of the only person who's well being I've been obsessing about to point of madness, in my mind, there's nothing outside my frail Boy with the Bread. As selfish as this is, I know I'll stay planted by his side until he's allowed to leave this hospital room.

I lean forward, bringing Peeta's bruised hand to rest against my cheek, hoping my touch will bring him comfort, and for the first time in months, I close my eyes and rest.

 

* * *

  

We're sitting in the middle of a field of high grasses, the tiny hummingbirds that live here zooming around us as if we were part of the meadow itself.

Peeta pulls at the end of my braid mischievously, grinning impishly when I throw him a pointed glare. He loves this game. He pulls on my braid and I pretend I'm getting annoyed until I lunge for him to tickle his sides until he squirms, laughing loudly and rolling on the ground, finally scaring the hummingbirds away from our spot for a minute or two.

According to the stamp on my arm, it's Reflection time. It's also the only time of day I'm allowed to be alone with Peeta, so we usually try to come here, or sit with Prim in my family's compartment, so the both of them can play with Buttercup.

Peeta pulls on my braid again trying to swallow the tiny giggle he can't quite hold back, finally making me drop the small rope I've been weaving out of grass, so I jump up and chase him around the meadow.

He ducks and tries to hide by staying low, but I can still hear him move, he's never mastered the art of sneakiness, so I let him circle back around me and before he can pounce, I surprise him by leaping on top of him. He falls flat on his back, while I attack his ribs.

It's been almost three weeks since he was returned to me. He's still nowhere near his pre Quarter Quell shape, but Peeta's starting to gain back some weight. Is a slow process, reversing the starvation he was subjected to. At first, he could only eat tiny portions, or all his intakes would be regurgitated. I can finally see his cheeks are filling out and his face and bones don't look so angular and pointy anymore, which makes me very happy. His doctors insist on him having a closely watched exercise routine, so he can gain his former strength, but sometimes... some muscle- memory reacts, and he's as fast and strong as before.

One minute I'm tickling his sides, his hands pawing at my arms to make me stop while thrashing and squealing a laugh, and the next, I'm flattened on my back, staring up at his deep blue eyes hovering above me, exactly like just now.

Somehow, he's managed to flip us over, so he's straddling my hips, pinning my hands to the ground above my head, and then he sit all the weight of his pelvis flushed against mine making both our ragged breaths to hitch momentarily.

A shadow of something sinister and dangerous pases quickly over his features, but is quickly out-rooted by a more carnal look; primitive and hungry; his pupils grow fat and quickly shrink to the tiniest dot, just to go back to normal in a matter of milliseconds, then his face goes pinched, confused, lost, and he finally scampers backwards, scrambling to crouch a foot away from me, looking absolutely terrified.

"Peeta?" I murmur sitting up as fast as I can. "What's wrong?" I pant raggedly.

He shakes his head and tries to scoot away from me, falling on his bottom instead.

"Please, don't come any closer." He begs, "Something is wrong with me again," his voice is so miserable it makes me want to cry.

"Just remember what your doctor said. Breathe deeply and repeat the words slowly. I'll help you." I say trying to hide my concern, "My name is..." I only wait a second or so for him to continue.

"Peeta Mellark. I'm twelve... no, seventeen years old. My home is District Twelve. I survived two Hunger Games. I've been hijacked by the Capitol, but the procedure misfired." He pauses, shutting his eyes tightly, he sounds scared and hurt, "My family was killed by the Capitol, along with the rest of my District. My only family now are Haymitch Abernathy and the Everdeens. I live in District Thirteen now..."

He slumps on the ground, drained, tears rolling down his cheeks, but breathing normally now.

I risk coming closer to him, and sit cross legged by his head. Without a word, he scoots closer to me and lays his head on my lap, so I start to comb my fingers through his cropped hair. I was deeply saddened when they decided to cut his mop of messy waves, but apparently Thirteen can't have something as showy as shaggy blonde hair roaming the stark corridors. I believe it's the opposite reason why they won't cut mine. They don't want people to readily recognize Peeta just by sight, whereas me... well, what good is a face to a rebellion, if their symbol is not easily recognizable?

Peeta stays quiet for a while, sniffing every so often. I check on the glowing clock visible across the meadow, reminding me this place is as synthetic as everything else grown in this bunker. I just need to make sure we don't get our small snatches of freedom taken away, because I can't return Peeta to his handlers punctually.

I wish he was released into my mother's care so our time together is not so restricted, but President Coin wouldn't allow it, since we aren't blood related. Times like this, I feel like I've been robbed the right to take care of my Peeta, and I find myself partly agreeing with Johanna's madness, when she crudely joked I should go ahead and "marry 'the kid' to turn him into 'a man' again".

But that's exactly the problem, whatever Snow tried to do to him while captive in the Capitol, reverted Peeta into a childlike state, that confuses and scares him so much, it's heartbreaking. While before the Quell was announced, I dreaded the notion that one day I would've had to marry Peeta, right now the whole thing is out of the question. I can't entertain the idea, while Peeta's mind is stuck as a twelve, thirteen year old boy, just learning his memory of the past few years has been wiped cleaned, or as Beetee puts it in a more optimistic light, repressed, by the torture of Hijacking, not even if a marriage means that he would be completely under my care as his only next of kin. No, it would feel too much like manipulation, and I don't have the heart to do that to Peeta, who never wanted to lose his sense of self.

Either way, I spend as much time with Peeta as I can, trying to help him understand his present, even if his mind is muddled. It's the least I can do.

Gale hates the whole thing. He defends Coin's decision to keep us apart, claiming is best for everyone if Peeta stays as a 'Ward of the District' until he gets his mind operating normally. I disagree, which apparently has become a more pronounced issue between me and my best friend lately.

The first day after Peeta was rescued, Haymitch and I were called to a meeting with Plutarch Heavensbee, Beetee, Boggs representing Coin and a panel of doctors who somehow included both my mother and Prim, to discuss 'Patient Mellark's' diagnosis. They tried to explain what could've possibly had been done to Peeta.

Beetee, who's the most knowledgeable of all of us, explained the process, "They injected him with tracker jacker venom. You remember being stung by tracker-jackers during your first games?"

I nodded at a loss for words, remembering the utter fear and confusion, the hallucinations and nightmares. Beetee continued when it was clear I had no way of responding with words.

"Our working hypothesis, is that they intended to brainwash Peeta into believing you, Katniss, were a threat to him, and use him as a weapon to attack you once the chance present itself. The problem is, Peeta's nervous system proved to be stronger than they expected. There hasn't been any recorded cases of Hijacking survivors that we know of, which makes Peeta's case all the most intriguing. As far as we could tell by the tests performed by the medical staff, we know the venom Peeta was administered caused a different reaction in his body. His mind seems to have fought back against the implanted, fake memories, causing problems with his long term memory, erasing- or in the best case scenario, hiding- entire chunks of it, to the point, his mind rewound all the way back to a time period that's safe and untampered with: when he was between the ages of twelve and thirteen."

Beetee's explanation sat heavy on my stomach, making me feel sick and dizzy. It was Prim who spoke up on my behalf, while twining our fingers under the table we sat at.

"Is there any chance of recovery? What's  our plan of action to help Patient Mellark?"

"We are optimistic about the recovery chances, actually," boomed Plutarch, "Peeta will stay under medical supervision, with psychological and physical retraining, until a time when all the damage has been sufficiently reversed!"

I could never tell if Plutarch was being facetious or naive. None of what I just heard gave me and sense of relief, but I decided to ignore him, and concentrated on helping Peeta as best as I could.

After the meeting, Haymitch hinted he wasn't very confident in Plutarch either, but we were still playing the game, and I was still Peeta's ally.

The clock at the other side of the meadow ticks again, devouring our Reflection time. Peeta's still curled up next to me, with his head on my lap while I caress his head soothingly. He's calmed down enough to play with the hem of my Thirteen issued, uniform pants, and the laces of my ill fitting boots.

I squeeze his shoulder and speak softly, "It's almost time. We have like fifteen minutes before we have to head back. Do you want to talk about it?"

Although the hijacking was a virtual failure, Peeta still gets flashes of the implanted memories, were I'm shown as a mutt, trying to kill him. Sometimes he reacts like a terrified child, others, like today, he reacts as Snow intended, at least to some extent.

"Don't be mad at me, but I rather tell Finnick or even Haymitch about it this time. I think it'll be better to ask them about--" he falls silent, and buries his face into the bend of my knees.

I'm slightly hurt he'd rather speak to Haymitch, but I can tell he's mortified about whatever questions he's got, so I swallow my wounded pride, and let him be.

"Mmm, Katniss?" He starts shyly, moving his head so I can see his flushed cheek.

"Yeah,"

"Could you sing?" His voice is barely audible, like he's not sure he's allowed to ask.

My breath hitches. The last time I was asked to sing, Rue died in my arms.

"You don't have to, I just... never mind. That was stupid," He says flustered, trying to sit up, but I won't let him.

I bracket my arm above his neck, forcing him to stay with his head on my thigh, and start singing on a trembling voice, a song I believe was lost to me until now,

" _Down in the valley, the valley so low,_  
 _Hang your head over, hear the wind blow_.  
 _Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow_.  
 _Hang your head over, hear the wind blow_.

_Roses love sunshine, violets love dew,_   
_Angels in heaven know I love you;_   
_Know I love you, dear, know I love you,_   
_Angels in heaven know I love you.”_

Peeta turns his head so he's staring directly at me, but I can't hold his gaze, so I look away and soon I close my eyes, letting the melody wash over me, until the song is done.

When I open my eyes, he's still staring at me, just with so much adoration in those blue eyes of his, all I can do is blush and smile shyly.

"So beautiful," he sighs content.

I smile down at him, "I figured, you'd like to hear The Valley song,"

"I wasn't talking about the song, but yes, it's a very nice song." His eyes flit away and a small smirk forms on his lips, he seats up all the way, "I told you, even the birds will stop to listen to you sing. Look,"

I turn to see what he's pointing out, and I'm surprised to see a swarm of hummingbirds hovering around us, making a zooming ring above us. They slowly start to move about, as if a spell that kept them bound in place has been broken. That's when I feel my braid being lifted off my shoulder. I expect a playful tug, but all I can feel is its weight methodically falling back into place.

I let my eyes follow the braid, until I find my hair slowly slipping through Peeta's fingers.

He's staring at his fingers and my hair as well, but there's an expression of wonderment there, soon eclipsed by confusion, and then he lets my braid fall heavily all the way down lifting his widened eyes to mine.

"I- I think I just remembered telling you that. About the birds." He swallows, and then asks startled, "Was that memory real?"

There's a humongous knot in my throat, my eyes itch with prickling tears. It’s all I can do not to cry.

I nod hastily. "You said you were a goner." I cover my mouth with my hand, not trusting myself, sick with the grief the memory is causing me to feel.

His eyes go as big a saucers, and his face turns pink, all the way from the tip of his ears, to his neck. "Oh," he whispers astonished. "That must have taken a lot of bravery to say that," he says looking away, there's an edge of pride in his voice that makes the whole thing lighter.

I chuckle softly. "Yeah, it took you eleven years to say that to me. You were very brave that day." I caress his face fondly, still smiling.

He looks so boyish, so sweet and just a bit embarrassed, I can't hold back, so I kiss his forehead sweetly.

"You're way braver than you think, Peeta."

"Not as brave as you. You are like, amazing! You go out into the woods and you can hunt! And then you go to the Hob and trade. I could never do that."

"Oh, Peeta, but you've done so much more than that," I wrap my arms around his shoulders and bring him to me until his head leans on mine.

"Mmm, can you tell me about it?" He asks hopefully.

I smile pushing away from him, I glance at the clock, noticing we only have two minutes to spare. "We were in district Eleven on our Victory Tour, there were a lot of people showing signs of rebellion against the Capitol, so a group of Peacekeepers tried to push us back into the Justice Building, and one of them tried to shove me off with the butt of their gun. You leapt in front of me, and pushed the gun away so hard, the peacekeeper stumbled a little. You were always protecting me from harm."

"I did that? Wow." His sense of awe turns into a deep blush, "I must have loved you a lot," he murmurs shyly, staring away from me.

His words make my heart clench. I reach a tentative hand, to skim over his chin. "You did."

Then he trains his pleading blue eyes into mine, "And you? Did you love me?" His voice is shaky and watery.

For the first time since all this mess started, I wish, deep in my soul I knew the answer to this question with some modicum of certainty. "Everyone says I did. That that's the reason Snow snatched you and tortured you, to get to me, destroy me."

"That's not an answer," he says frowning, and I can see the real Peeta in the gesture.

"I wish I had a better answer, Peeta. I wish I could say it freely, because truth be told, I know you mean more to me than anyone could ever guess, and I’ve missed you so desperately since we got separated, I often felt like I would crumble, if something happened to you. I was so scared Snow was going to kill you, I was ready to go trade myself for you any moment."

That much I know is true, and I feel terrible for unloading it all on him like this, when his mind can't truly comprehend all the sorrow and ugliness of our situation. But as usual, Peeta surprises me, by simply being Peeta.

"I'm here now. And I will remember. I want to remember. You won't have to tell me things that make you feel sad. I promise you."

We pick up our little camp, and head to the hospital wing, where Peeta's guards are waiting impatiently. We are only ninety seconds late, but I really hope this won't affect my visits with him. I don't think I'd be able to handle it, if he was taken from me.

 

* * *

 

Finnick is telling a ridiculous story about a turtle swimming away with his hat, that has the whole table in stitches, the rest of the dining hall stare at us like we are a big nuisance.

I snort a laugh through my nose, holding my stomach tightly. But my merriment is rudely interrupted when a heavy hand lands in my shoulder, and an unyielding voice calls out loudly, "Soldier Everdeen, you're needed in Command right away."

All of my companions' laughter dies down abruptly.

"Why is she being summoned?" Demands Gale none too happy.

"Need to know only, soldier Hawthorne."

I can see Gale's rash response forming, but before it can hash, I stand up with my unfinished tray of food in hand. "Is alright. I'll dispose of this and come to Command in a second," I say.

"Negative. I have express orders to escort you."

I can't help the bout of annoyance that floods me, but it’s Peeta's eyes that stop my biting retort.

He looks uncertain and nervous, he mistrust Thirteen's soldiers, he said they sometimes remind him of being a prisoner in the Capitol, and then clams up so tight, it takes hours to get him to surface. It doesn't help that the soldier's hand is still gripping my shoulder, and the longer he keeps his hand there, Peeta's nervousness starts to fade into something far more troublesome. He may not remember much about the past few years, but Peeta is still as protective of me as I am of him.

I say in my most soothing voice, "Peeta, Prim will take you to see Buttercup after lunch, and if I don't return before your training session, she'll walk you back to your class. I'll see you at supper, okay?" He nods quietly, eyes watching me and then narrowing on the soldier's hand still on my shoulder.

I've seen that look before, he hates to see something threatening me. So I mouth to him, aware that everyone is very much staring, "It'll be okay."

He nods again, and I let the soldier guide me to Command.

 

* * *

  

Gale is down the corridor leading to Command when I'm released, not ten minutes later.

He doesn't say anything at first, just falling into step with me when I pass him.

"Did you know about this?" I pounce on him as soon as we are safely behind the empty elevator doors.

"If I had any idea of why you were yanked out of the cafeteria during lunch time, I wouldn't have asked your escort about it, Catnip,"

His answer does very little to pacify me. I glare at him for a second. "But you're so close to Coin," I try to keep back the venom, but it still sounds accusatory.

"Well, she doesn't tell me things above my clearance." He's also trying to keep his temper under wraps.

"So you don't know I'm being shipped to Two this afternoon?"

The elevator doors open but Gale grabs my elbow, stopping me from disembarking.

"They're sending you to Two?" He asks gravely.

I shrug his hold off and step out of the elevator before it's called away with me still in it.

"According to Coin, it'll raise morale if the rebels saw me around."

"I can see that," Gale concedes.

"I think it's crap! I'm being sent to a non-combat zone to be paraded around as punishment for bringing Peeta late to his room and then taking a detour into a maintenance closet on my way back to my compartment. Coin made a point of saying this deployment was 'despite' my disregard for the schedule every citizen of Thirteen is subjected to, which means is anything but the contrary."

"Catnip, I think you have to look at things from her perspective. She can't very well drop you off on a war zone, not while Two is still in Capitol's hands. She's trying to run a district here, and she needs everyone to comply with the rules."

The way he sides with Coin grates me the wrong way. I turn to stare at him with barely contained anger.

"And when people don't follow the rules, it's okay to take them into some dark dungeon and tie their hands to the walls, and let them sit in their own waste, like they did to the Preps, isn't that right?"

"If the rules are being broken, then yes! People should be hold accountable." He fumes.

"You used to break the rules out of hunger all the time, Gale. Was your being flogged to shreds a deserved punishment? Because the same principle was working behind the prep’s punishment, to me was unnecessarily excessive in both cases. You can't have it both ways, you either agree with bending the rules or not. "

Gale stops mid step scowling at me, his gray eyes almost incredulous at my response, and finally he lets his own temper roar.

"If you weren't playing Peeta's nanny all the time, you'd notice how much the rebellion needs you, Catnip. But all you care about is him. At first, I kind of understood it. He's a child, and you can't help yourself when it comes to children, caring for them, protecting them, tying yourself to them at the cost of your own survival, because to you any kid becomes a Prim surrogate, and since Prim doesn't need you anymore, because she's finally safe and fed and has a future ahead of her, you had to find another person to dote on. It doesn't matter if you abandon the people who actually depend on you, the ones out there risking their lives to free Panem, but sure, Coin is punishing you for being late to bed a night ago. That's exactly what this is about!"

I'm in shock by Gale's unfair accusations. I'm momentarily stunned just staring at him raging, puffing breath out of his nostrils like a bull who's just been prodded to the limit, and I wonder how long has he harbored all this resentment, just waiting for the smallest provocation to be let all out, and I realize, I don't care.

"You're wrong, Gale," I tell him quietly, he's gone too far, and really he has no right, but I guess now I know we can't see eye to eye on this topic. “I care about Peeta because he's my friend, he's family, I'm all he's got left anymore. If his mind is lost, is because of me, it's because the rebellion you defend so much sacrificed him in my place, and I do feel indebted to him, but not for the reasons you believe.

"Him recovering his memories is damned right my priority. Peeta is still the man who helped carry your beaten body to my kitchen table. He's still the man who fought tooth and nail to keep me alive in not one, but two hunger games not caring if he survived. He's not a child anymore than you are right now, so, if you'll excuse me, I need to go pack before I'm shipped away."

We stare at each other fuming, and all I can muster as a goodbye is a flat, "Gale." That he doesn't return.

There's a fracture in our friendship, and for the first time ever, I'm too angry to feel scared I'll lose my best friend over Peeta.

 

* * *

 

"Hello," I push the door open smiling, trying to mask all the sadness that suddenly fills me.

"Katniss!" Peeta exclaims delighted. "I wasn't expecting you until Reflection!” In his enthusiasm, he knocks down the chair he was sitting on, and rushes to give me a bear hug, like the kind a child would give a favorite aunt they haven't seen in days.

I return the gesture, and squeal when my feet lift off the floor for a moment in his effervescent greeting.

Sometimes he forgets he has the strength and body of a man. Peeta stopped being a boy the day he killed his first tribute, whether he did it out of mercy or necessity. The thought sobers me, and I'm grateful he can't remember the horrors we've been through, even if by the same token he can't remember the few good times we shared either.

When my feet touch the ground again, I take a good look at him.

He's smiling brightly, just happy to see me, which makes my chest hurt a little.

“Wow! You look amazing!” He says staring me up and down. I'm already wearing my Mockingjay uniform and most people stop to look at me walk by while I'm wearing it, it still makes me feel strange to have him gaping at me like he's starstruck. “I've only seen you dressed as the Mockingjay on TV. You look so much greater in person!”

I chuckle embarrassedly, shaking my head ruefully at him, and impulsively spin around to show him my outfit.

His eyes glaze over, like he's lost in a memory, the smile that was covering his face a second ago slips into confusion, and my heart starts beating fast. I grab him by the shoulders and try to shake him out of it, but he shudders from head to toe, and his eyes clear up immediately.

“Peeta, what's wro--”

He brings his hand to touch the sleeve of my uniform, letting the tip of his finger slide down my arm, and then skip to the breastplate covering my rib cage. His eyes scan me all the way to my feet.

“You're not on fire,” he mutters studying my boots. “Every time you spin like that, you catch on fire.”

“Not anymore,” I say swallowing the lump in my throat. Cinna's gone, no one else will ever light up my clothes on fire. Then, Peeta's reaction scared me so much, and finally he remembered my dresses going up in flames. It's too much. I need to redirect this conversation.

"So, um, I'm here because earlier, when I was called to Command during lunch, I was given orders, to go on a support mission to District Two."

"Oh," Peeta takes a step back, his face falling a little, "When are they sending you away?" He asks seriously.

"Today, at 1400."

"So soon?"

Haymitch steps into the room right then. He doesn't really react when he sees me, which tells me he was probably expecting to find me here.

“Boy, how are you holding up?” He greets watching Peeta shrug, "I take it you told him the exciting news,” he deadpans to me. Without waiting for an answer he goes on, “What are your orders specifically? I was told to standby for instructions, but they haven't briefed me on anything else."

I know he hates being left blind to the operations as much as I do, "No real target. I was told I'd be lending moral support for the troops, helping the rebellion anyway I can. They need to see their Mockingjay's face even if there's no combat involved."

"Good! You don't need to see combat anyway," Haymitch grunts. "You told your mama yet?" He asks tipping his chin at me.

"My next stop," I lie, my next stop is Prim. Going to my mother never even crossed my mind really, but I guess I should, at least to make sure she knows to watch over Peeta while I'm away.

"When are you coming back?" Peeta asks in a thin voice ignoring Haymitch.

I run my fingers through his hair, and say softly, "I'll be gone just a few weeks, you won't even notice I wasn't here."

An idea blooms in my mind, "I'll have Finnick come see you during reflection, if he can manage it. Would you like that?" I smile at him again.

"Yeah. He's funny!" Peeta says easily, smiling softly.

"Okay, then it's done. I'll talk to him, and I know he'll love coming to chat with you. He likes you a lot too." Since Annie, Johanna and Peeta were rescued, Finnick has made every effort to spend time with all of them. I know he probably wishes to concentrate solely on Annie, but I understand he's feeling protective of the other victors over the guilt that he was rescued, while the others were left behind.

"Okay." Peeta repeats. Then his face takes that expression I've seen when he's concentrating on something, "Hey, Katniss, can I come say good bye at the hangar?" He asks hopefully.

I find Haymitch's eyes for a moment, "I guess you could, if someone were to escort you there and back before your 14:30 therapy session." I stare at Haymitch, until he reluctantly nods, and finally I'm free to gaze at Peeta's sweet face for a second or so, before I have to get going.

"Okay. I'll see you at the hangar!” He smiles again and we hug.

I have about thirty minutes to take care of everything, before I have report to Boggs in the hangar. He's going to be leading my detail as usual.

I catch Finnick first and he agrees to see Peeta every other day during reflection, if Annie is up to joining. I hug him and thank him profusely knowing full well, this means less time he can spend alone with his beloved, but at least Annie is not confined to the hospital wing, like Peeta and Johanna.

I go to my compartment next, to get my backpack with my gear, and I startle when I find my mother there, getting ready for her shift at the hospital.

She frowns as soon as she catches a glance of me. “Would it be safe to assume, you're not filming a propo today?” Her lips form a tight, disapproving line as her eyes fall on my gear pack sitting atop my bed.

“I’ve got deployment orders,” I say, because I'm not completely happy either.

She pins her hair into a tight bun at the base of her neck and turns to look at. “When do you leave?” She asks.

“Twenty minutes or so. I'm supposed to meet my team at the hangar in ten.”

“Where are you going, and when can we expect you back?”

I sigh, sitting heavily on the bed next to my pack. “I'm going to District Two. I'll be put very far away from the conflict zone, so there's slim to no chance of danger to me. They only want to parade me around so the rebels know I'm still with them.” She nods absently, “I'm not sure how long I'll be gone. Is probably a few days, and then I'll be shipped back for more propos.”

My mother takes a deep breath. “I wished I was informed of your comings and goings beforehand. Sometimes I feel like everyone forgets you're still a young girl.”

“I'm sorry. I'll… I’ll ask my superiors to keep you in the loop of things from now on.” I feel slightly guilty, because is true, even I ignore my mother all the time.

“Mother…” I wring my hands together not quite meeting her tired eyes.

“I know, Katniss. I'll keep an eye on him and ask again for his case to be reviewed. Maybe they'll change their minds and release him to my care.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly, finally fixing my eyes on hers. “I know I'm asking for a lot out of you,” I pause, “but, he's my--”

“You care about him, Katniss. There's no need to explain.” She comes closer to me and places her slim, soft hand under my chin, “I saw the video. Cressida showed me the raw footage, the part where you explain what he did when you were only children. I understand what he means to you, I finally learned who he really is, and why you feel the way you do about him.”

“And what's that?” I ask shakily, because I want to know what my mother thinks, and because I'm too scared she's right about it.

“He's the source of your bravery. Beyond that, is up to you to determine.” She pats my cheek lovingly and steps away. “I'll tell your sister you were sent away, unless you've already seen her.”

I shake my head, “I was heading to the tutoring hall, and then I was going to see if could find you,”

My mother gives me a doubtful look, but doesn't comment on it.

“Be safe,” she says at last. “I hope everything goes well in your mission.” She ducks out of our compartment, and after shouldering my pack, so do I.

No emotional goodbyes between us anymore. It's as if she's used to see me leave, and for once, she's the one stepping away first.

 

* * *

 

As promised, Peeta waits by the hangar entrance when I finally reach the hovercraft patch. He's rocking on the balls of his feet, holding a piece of paper in his hands, standing next to an annoyed looking Haymitch.

He hasn't seen me yet, he's so immersed on his pendular motion, he doesn't even raise his eyes until I call out their names from a few steps away, but when his face tilts up, his eyes dance between mine happily. A grin so big covers his face cheek to cheek, making me wonder how can he stretch his facial muscles so much.

“Hi, Katniss!” He greets brightly. “I’ve never been out here. The hovercrafts are very loud from this close.” He says glancing around the humongous hangar.

Hovercrafts are very quiet flying machines while up in the air, but while they're idle on the ground, they hum very loudly; it makes your ears hurt if you spend too long so close to the engines.

I smile and nod, “I know what you mean,” I tell him winning me a huge sideways smirk, “That's why people who work here, wear protective ear gear,” I tell him.

He seems to be enjoying all the activity around us, I guess this would be very fascinating for a boy of any age, especially one who grew up in District Twelve, where hovercrafts are a rarity.

“Here!” He says handing me the sheet he's been carefully holding in his hands. “For you! I made it after you left my room a while ago. I know it's not as pretty as you would expect, but nothing is as pretty as you are.” He blushes and his eyes shy away from mine.

I take the page from him, and see a beautifully drawn picture of me wearing my mockingjay uniform. I'm pleasantly surprise to see that whatever affects his mind, has no bearing on his natural talent. He's still the same gifted artist everyone knows from the Victory Tour, except, this piece is only graphite sketch, unlike the colorful paintings that littered his train car.

“Peeta… this is amazing…” I trail off tracing my fingers all over the details of the sketch. A pang of sadness invades me, because this drawing favors Cinna’s book so much, I wonder if Peeta could have caught a glimpse of it at some point, but I keep coming up empty for ideas of when or how.

“Thank you,” I say finally training my eyes on his pink cheeks, “it's beautiful!”

His eyes meet mine, “Not as beautiful as the real thing, but thanks. I'm happy you liked it.”

My chest fills with tenderness, there's a sense of having lived and heard this moment before, but I know it's not true.

“Will you think of me, when you look at it?” He asks.

“I will,” I promise truthfully.

Boggs' booming voice is almost drown under the incessant humming of the crafts, but his command is still audible, “Everdeen, move it! We are supposed to be airborne in five minutes!”

“Yes, sir!” I call back quickly. Then I turn to Peeta and Haymitch. “Take care of each other. Be safe. I'll see you both soon.”

"You too, Sweetheart. Be smart out there until I get in touch with you."

I nod and then I reach to hug Peeta.

In my haste, I try to plant a kiss on his cheek, but Boggs calls me again, and Haymitch tries to push me forward, somehow our position shifts, and my lips land square on Peeta's for a second.

He's startled by the quick brush of lips, so much he's frozen in place, staring at me with wide stunned eyes. I kinda want to laugh, this is so ridiculous, we've shared more passionate kisses than that, but then I remember his memories have been jumbled to bits, and all I can do is repress a sad sigh.

“I'll see you soon, Peeta. Be good!” I hold the picture he gave me to my chest, hitch my pack higher on my shoulder, and board my aircraft without looking back, scared I'll do something stupid, like cry.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank yous to RunOn (Kleeklutch@tumblr) for her support, kindness, and amazing beta skills! You Rock!

It's a soft world with no sharp edges, tinted in purples and pale lights. I run through banks of clouds looking for something, or rather, someone.

Was it my father? No, the voice I seek is not as musical, but is tender and loving all the same. I push forward, propelled by the need to hear it again, “ _Don't leave!_ ” I call out, “ _Stay with me!_ ” I beg pitifully, and then, the silhouette that's been dodging me stops, turning to face me. Bright light shining from behind his broad shape makes me shield my eyes. Suddenly, the scents of cinnamon and dill fill my surroundings like a veil, and I can make out a hand being extended towards me.

I know him! I know the owner of the hand as if it was my own! I've clung to those hands endless times.

“ _Always_ ,” He says.

I can hear the smile in his promise, but right when I stretch my own hand to grasp his, the world disappears into nothing and I wake up with a start.

I come to with a loud gasp, all my breath feels like it rushed from the soles of my feet to my gaping mouth, abruptly shaking me into consciousness.

Quick slender hands firmly push me back into the crinkly bed by the shoulders.

“You're alright, Katniss, but you have to stay in bed. Don't strain yourself, or you'll lose every stitch in your incision.”

What? I'm so confused.

I don't have any memory of where I am nor what's happened to me, but the piercing pain registers immediately, like the impact of the bullet that hit me.

The whole episode comes to me at once: the Nut, arguing with Gale, the bombing, the landslides of dirt and the billowing smoke escaping the earth itself, the train crashing into the only open station, the heat of the fire roaring behind the train, the stench of burnt skin, hair and blood, staring at the scared man obscured by the barrel of the gun he had trained on me while I tried to explain to him how I refuse to be Snow’s pawn anymore, and then, the bang.

A gunshot in real time sounds nothing like the big, booming noise we conjure up in our heads when we imagine it.

My heart is beating frantically in my chest, terror grips my insides until I can't breathe, and to make things worse, there's a fast beeping sound, drowning my ears and senses; I recognize my mother’s voice commanding me to calm down, but that's about it, she turns around brusquely to tell someone behind her to stay where he is, unless he wants to be forcibly removed from the room.

Someone else comes in, there's a lot of noises around me, machines and people shouting. I'm shaking the whole bed. My mother grabs my arm to calm me down. Whoever she was talking to, tries to get closer but she stops them again. All I can see is my mother's blurred face that comes in and out of focus, and suddenly a warm sensation runs up my arm, spreading like the roots of an old oak tree under fertile, rich soil. My eyelids grow heavy, my mother’s voice sounds far away, the other person is being pulled out of the room practically kicking and screaming, I vaguely wonder why is he fighting so hard to stay with me? and then, I know no more.

 

* * *

 

My fingers twitch.

I shiver slightly.

It's a chore, but my eyes flutter once, twice, before they open groggily.

My ears perk up when something swishes to my left. My eyes can't quite follow the sound, but his voice reaches me before he materializes in my periphery.

“Hey! Welcome back sleepy head!”

I'm met with Finnick’s sparkling green eyes and blinding white smile.

“I was beginning to regret taking this job. You were never this dull to be around before,” he jokes, and I really wish I could laugh, but just the act of smiling hurts to the core.

“Hey, pretty boy. Sorry you were stuck with babysitting duty. So far away from your admires.” I try to tell him in the same tone, but my voice is scratchy, exhausted and frail, and I have to pause to take even breaths between sentences.

“The way I see it, you owe me. Big time!” He smiles down at me, leaning protectively to block the garish overhead light when he notices I'm squinting.

“So… how long have I been out?” I ask trying to figure out what's been going on.

“Not long,” he says sitting at the edge of my mattress. “Three days. You did wake up a couple of times but they had to knock you down again with morphling. How much do you remember?”

“I know I got shot,” I say flatly. “What else is there to remember anyway.” I try to sit up, and find the task painful and close to impossible.

Finnick quickly supports my neck with one hand, while his other holds mine and between the two of us, shift my position upwards.

“Better?” He asks once I'm leaning somewhat comfortably on the pillows he just arranged behind my back.

“Mhmm… you better stop being so good at treating patients, they'll mistake you for a nurse and keep you here until they figure out you're not as useful as you seem,” we smirk at each other.

“Nah, they know me too well, you know, from my long stays here. It's like a second home really.”

We both laugh at the bad joke, because the alternative is getting depressed about it, and right now neither of us can afford that.

“So…” I let the word drag, and finally give Finnick a questioning look, “how is he? has he been here to see me?” I chew on my chapped lower lip.

His face softens, a smile stretching slowly over his lips. He nods, and folds his arms over his chest studying me.

“Look around the room,” he says brightly.

I hadn't bothered, first because it's Thirteen, one could say my designated compartment was in the hospital wing for how often I've to stay here. Second, it's Thirteen, if you've seen a room, you've seen them all! every wall, corridor and nook of this place is gray and garishly lighted with those unnatural looking bulbs. But since Finnick is looking pleased with himself, I oblige and let my eyes roam around the room not expecting much but the same color scheme as always, just littered with medical supplies and machinery tucked into corners instead of the bare essentials of the living quarters.

I'm shocked to find I'm partially wrong. All around me, I can spot art against the sad backdrop of the sterile walls. Is not colorful art, per say, I doubt Thirteen has any more art supplies than the rest of the districts of Panem ever had, but is art all the same.

Small pictures drawn in pencil over stained, crumpled paper, flowers of all shapes and sizes made out of used napkins, rags, and the rare discarded piece of plastic or cardboard. Although the many portraits of me hanging from every available space aren't as painstakingly, accurate detailed, I recognize Peeta’s handiwork in everything I see. He's managed to make the room look joyful, which is quite the accomplishment.

I'm speechless, just studying Peeta’s gifts from afar, wondering if he's made all this while I've been convalescing, or if he's collected them since I was shipped off to Two.

“I need to go see Johanna to collect my winnings,” Finnick smirks, interrupting my musing.

I'm confused of course, not knowing what he's talking about. It must reflect on my face, because he quickly elaborates.

“She's been sneaking in here to syphon from your morphling supply. They're cutting hers back, trying to wean her of the stuff. I caught her last night. She snuck in while I was walking Peeta back to his room. She knew I wouldn't report her to the higher ups, but I still couldn't just let her slip, so we made a little wager, if I lose, I'd figure out how to supply her some morphling vials, but if I win, she has to go cold turkey.”

“What was the bet?” I ask both annoyed and curious.

“Who you'd ask about first: Peeta or little Prim,” he smiles impishly. “I won.” He raises both hands shrugging.

Gale’s harsh words about Peeta being a surrogate for Prim come back to mind, and suddenly I'm angry.

Finnick can see my change of mood, because he sighs and mutters tiredly, “I didn't mean to upset you,” he scrubs his forehead with his fingers.

“I'm not upset. At least not at you. It's just that I remembered a nasty argument I had with Gale a couple of weeks ago, and the whole thing just…” I heave a long breath, “He was wrong.” I finish scowling.

“Well, there are two things we can do right now, one is completely optional, the other not so much,” he says with a serious expression, “I can call your nurse and step away while they examine you, or I can stay here and tell you all I know about Peeta, and then call the nurses in. What will you have me do?”

I don't even have to think it over, so I glare at him for a second before gesturing with my head to go on.

He nods and settles deeper into the edge of my bed.

“He remembers some things.” He says gravely, which indicates his returned memories aren't that great. “Unfortunately, some of the memories were extensively tainted by Capitol manipulation, and revisiting them was making him a little aggressive.”

 _Oh no!_ I think to myself, that's not good at all!

Finnick keeps explaining, “Prim came up with a brilliant idea though. She suggested Peeta got injected with low doses of morphling, while his doctors play clips of his time in the arenas, victory tour, and every other television appearance he has. Of course that means a lot of footage of you as well. The idea is to try and reverse the hijacking by exposing him to what is actually recorded, in a controlled environment, to see if the fear infused memories he was implanted with can be repaired to their original state.”

“Did it work?” I ask anxiously. I'm impressed by Prim’s resourcefulness, but I don't know if her suggestions were taken seriously by the higher ups, they tend to think they know better than anybody else in the districts.

Finnick smiles sadly at me, “He's… improved in some areas. His brain has been battling the conflicting information ever since. He's slowly remembering things on his own, but he gets very scared and confused at times. We’ve tried to help as much as we can, we've even invented a game to help him sort out real memories from fake ones: real or not real,”

“But?”

He sighs, “There are some memories only you can confirm or deny.”

“Like what?” I try to sit up straight, but my body is too sore for that.

Finnick gives me one of his curious, doubtful looks, before responding.

“It's mostly things that happened off camera. For example, he's got a lot of questions about holding hands and walking around town, going into his parents’ bakery so you could buy cakes, you coming home with Gale after a whole day out in the woods, you nuzzling his hands… he's pretty sure you were in your bedroom and you were actually in bed when this happened,” his eyes scan me curiously for a reaction I guess, when no answer is forthcoming, he says, “He draws flowers for you, lots of them, because he thinks he remembers you collecting drawings of plants in an old book,” the quizzical stare hasn't left his face yet, but I can feel my facial muscles contract.

Finally, I give him a small nod, and explain, “My mother’s family started recording all their knowledge of medicinal herbs. Somehow she kept the book, and my father added some entries about edible plants.” I shift in bed, a blush heating up my cheeks, “There was an incident, where I fell off a tree, my mother said I couldn't put any weight on my foot and gave me sleep syrup to pass the night. Peeta carried me to bed that first night, and every day after that, he would carry me all around the house until my mother deemed my foot healed.

“Since there was nothing else for me to do while out on f commission, I decided to add my own knowledge to the book of plants, things I knew already and things I picked up during the games, Peeta made the illustrations, because we couldn't very well go to the woods to find samples, and he knew most of the plants from the games anyway.” I shrug, obviously leaving out the explanation of my nuzzling Peeta’s hands under the influence of sleep syrup.

Finnick nods absentmindedly, his gaze lost somewhere past my head, I think he's debating something in his mind, then finally, he speaks.

“Someone showed him the Quarter Quell interviews.” I'm not too fond of the way his eyes turn sympathetic when he looks at me.

Many things were said during those interviews. Everyone was emotional, angry, and ready to say whatever it took to stop the games from happening. The victors felt betrayed, and everyone tried their best at showing it, but Peeta’s interview set the whole event aflame. I remember his tears, his desperation, his hand clinging to mine. To this day, I wonder how much of those tears were for the Capitol’s benefit, and how much was actual grief over the idea of losing a child that would never happen, but could potentially embody the horrors every parent in Panem has always feared.

“He thinks the baby was real?” My voice cracks when I finally arrive at that conclusion.

Finnick shakes his head. “He knows it wasn't. Somehow he knows he made it up, but he wonders if the idea wasn't all just a wild fabrication, if there was a chance the lie was born from a possibility at all?” He pauses, to let me digest what he's saying, “Look, every one of us always thought you were a bit…”

“Pure?” I supply with a dash of venom.

He chuckles uncomfortably, and then shakes his head, “It was a bit of a surprise to hear Peeta hint there was a baby. Johanna and I tried to confirm it before the games, but… well, Peeta is very fast on his feet when he wants to be.” He laughs quietly.

It's true, Peeta pulled me into that elevator after the interviews so fast, nobody would've ever caught us.

“He thinks we--” I choke on the notion. My stomach churns, because it's not possible that Peeta would think we did more than sleep on the nights we shared a bed, when in reality all we did was fend off nightmares in each other's arms.

“He doesn't know what to think. But he's a male, and he… well, has impulses. Dreams. He's got the active imagination of a fifteen year old boy, Katniss.”

That little statement erases the grief gripping my chest, “Fifteen?” I repeat stunned, before shaking my head as another thought breaks through, “Wait, what has he been… imagining?” I swallow thickly.

Finnick chuckles ruefully. “Katniss, he's a boy! In his broken mind, he had a girlfriend who he spent countless unsupervised hours with, and then he sees a video of himself telling the whole country that you're not just newlyweds, but you're expecting a baby together.” He rubs his palms on his thighs. “Believe me, he was very embarrassed the first time we talked about it. I'm just glad he trusted me enough to come forward with his questions. Is not easy for anyone, no matter the age, to confide in another about this things.” A little teasing smile appears, although he tries to keep a straight face right away, “He was scared you’d find out about the fantasies swirling in his mind. He's sure you'll be angry and offended, then you'll stop talking to him altogether.”

I frown. “I'm not sure how I'd react, but I wouldn't hold it against him. Is not like he can control the… you know… thoughts! I mean, I'm not completely obtuse. If my life had been any easier, maybe I could've consider it too...” I trail off.

I can barely make eye contact with him, but I'm sure a stupid grin would be plastered on his face, and with the intention of wiping it off, I finally raise my head to face him.

I'm surprised to find Finnick's not smiling at all. His features are soft with a hint of concern behind it.

“I don't want to embarrass you, Katniss. This is something you should talk about with someone you trust, preferably before you and Peeta find yourselves discussing it--”

“We never did anything beyond sleeping,” I blurt out surprising Finnick into perplexed silence. “He would've never taken advantage of the situation. We just couldn't face the night terrors alone, we were a team even against nightmares, and now even _that_ the Capitol has tainted.” Bitter tears roll down my cheeks.

“Oh, Katniss…” he says taking my hand as I weep quietly.

“I don't have anyone else to talk about this with,” I say curtly, because I don't want pity but I need to excuse myself at the same time. “The truth is, if it wasn't because I'm so scared of loving, or getting attached or whatever, I'm sure there would probably be more than a chance of everything being like he thinks.” I look at Finnick, still crying. “It could've happened, you know… at the beach. But midnight came, and the tree was struck by lightning. It woke you up and brought us back to our senses. But, for a moment… It could've happened. Now it'll never will.” I wipe at my face harshly, and before he can say anything at all, I fix him with the most defiant stare I can muster, and demand, “Can we talk about something else? I want to hear about Annie. How is she?”

Finnick nods with a heavy sigh, but if there's one person in this whole place who understands me, that's him.

“Alright.” He starts, his lips purse for a short moment, and then a sweet and dreamy look covers his face, he squeezes my hand, “Annie’s doing much better than expected. The Capitol used scare tactics against her, but nothing as serious as Johanna had to face,” he trails off, his smile falling slightly.

It's my turn to squeeze his hand, “Hey, they're here now. Here is better than anywhere else at the moment.”

“I know. But they saw things no person should ever have to see.” He grimaces. “That's on me.” He says bitterly.

I sigh tiredly, reclining deeper into my pillows, suddenly exhausted, “That's on all of us, Finnick. I let Peeta out of my sight, I wish I hadn't.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” He agrees. We sit there in silence for a long moment, then he's smiling again, this time genuinely happy, so much so, it seems like he's erased five years off his body, face, and spirit. “We're getting married,” he says it so quietly, so reverently, I have the impression he's spilling some heavily protected secret I'm not supposed to know about.

“Are you serious?” I ask excitedly. I truly am happy for him. He deserves to live the rest of his life next to the woman he loves. “Congratulations!” I manage to pull myself closer for a hug and he meets me halfway, accepting my offering.

“We’ll wait until you're recovered enough to participate in the wedding of course!” He tells me as soon as we separate.

“I wouldn't miss it for anything!” But I yawn so widely, he's laughing loudly.

He stands, patting my shoulder. “I'm going to let your nurse know you're awake. They'll want to check on you, and then I'm sure you can go back to sleep.”

I nod, because there's nothing else to say. He's making his way to the door when I call his name.

“Yeah?” He responds.

“Can _he_ be here next time I wake up?” I ask meekly.

Finnick takes a moment to answer, “I’ll talk to Haymitch and your mother.”

Then he's gone.

 

* * *

 

My ribs hurt so bad, the pain wakes me.

Johanna Mason is hovering by my left, her back to me. I know it's her instinctively, even though her hospital gown and the downy brown fuzz just starting to sprout out of her shaven head would've been a dead giveaway all the same.

She's humming something to herself, her arms busy but blocked to my view and then she releases a deep, long, relieved sigh.

I groan trying to sit up while my limbs ache and spasm. Johanna turns to watch me with mild curiosity, but soon she's grinning maliciously down at me.

“Good morning, Mockingjay!” She says plopping down on my mattress.

“By all means… have a seat,” I rasp.

“Don't mind if I do, I'm already helping myself to your morphling anyway.” She shakes the arm with the IV protruding of it.

“I can see that. Finnick says is your favorite pastime lately,” I try not to wince when as I scoot up in bed.

“Finnick says a lot of things,” she throws me a glare, “He said I lost our bet, and although I don't find it all that hard to believe, after all you're an insufferable goody-two-shoes, who cares about others too much, I still hold you accountable for my being here.” She moves her hand in a grand gesture showing our surroundings, “The problem with you, Mockingjay, what makes your act of mártir so hard to swallow, is that is not an act at all,” she says with a hint of disdain. “It's disgusting!”

I don't know how to feel about her words. I understand her rage, and I don't blame her for trying to take whatever comfort she can get from stealing away my morphling. I think I'd feel the same way if our positions were reversed. It doesn't change the fact that I didn't ask for any of this anymore than she did.

“So, Bread Boy comes every day, makes a little addition to the collection of fake flowers he makes from trash he's allowed to keep.” She snorts derisively, “This 13 jokers aren't kidding about their resources. I heard him fighting over a piece of used up napkin he wanted to make you a lily with. He almost got sent to his room for being unruly.” She rolls her eyes.

I scowl at this. “What were they going to do with an used napkin?” I ask aggravated, even in 12, trash was trash. “Is not like one could clean up a piece of soiled paper napkin.”

But is not Johanna who answers my question.

“They have a recycling station here. Everything paper goes in there. They tear it apart, make mush, press it together, and you get new paper from scraps. The boy gets special treatment because of his condition, his doctors think- influenced by none other than your mother's recommendation- that if they let him be creative, something of his old self will show up. They've succeeded partly. He has an allowance of paper items he can keep, they monitor his activities very closely.” Haymitch's Seam eyes fix on Johanna’s arm where my little hose thing dangles out of her own IV line, but then he's looking at me again, “I think it's all a way to show us how much control they have. Nothing new.”

“Same Capitol tack, another president,” supplies Johanna with an edge of anger, “We’ll let you think you have some privileges, but we will hold them over your head, threatening to snatch them away whenever we feel like it.” Her voice drips with sarcasm.

Haymitch drags a chair close to my bed, he looks awful, like he's got hit by a second wave of detox.

“Now, Johanna, I appreciate you need to feed your new hunger there,” he points at her arm lazily, “and I'm not heartless. Everyone knows I'm so dry, I'm about to start distilling my own turnips. But do yourself a favor, don't come stealing the girl’s drugs in the middle of the day when anyone can catch you. They won't be as understanding as I am.”

He slouches in the chair, like he can't care less about what she does next, and maybe he really doesn't, I think he's only telling her this to watch his own back.

Johanna grunts under her breath. She closes her eyes for a second, as if gathering her courage, and then stares at him, “Just give me five more seconds, and I'll be gone. You'll have your little tribute all to yourself.”

Haymitch makes a noncommittal gesture with his hand, before yawning. I think this would be the part where a shiny flask would've make a quick appearance from under his coat, just to disappear in the blink of an eye, yet, he makes no move to retrieve a concealed sip of liquor from thin air. Maybe he isn't joking about distilling his own vegetables after all.

After a very long silence, where my ribs feel like they’ve been lit on fire and then cracked with sledgehammer, Johanna finally yanks the drip hose out of her needle. She attaches it to mine none too gently, and slinks out of my room, telling me in a too cheerful voice, "I'll see you later, Brainless!"

“Great,” I mutter trying to rub my arm.

I can tell the instant the clear substance makes its way into my bloodstream. The effect is drastic, my aching body relaxes, and the pain burning my sides dulls out considerably. I sigh in relief too, just like Johanna did, and come to think of it, just like Gale did when my mother injected him the vials Madge brought over after his flogging.

A pang of sadness hits me remembering  of Madge. I still hope she's okay somewhere, but the ones in the know tell me not to hold my breath about it.

“Curious thing morphling, isn't?” Says Haymitch in his scratchy voice, startling me. “Don't get used to the stuff, Sweetheart, they'll take it away soon enough, and getting wean off it is even worse than losing your booze.”

“I guess you should know.” I say flatly. It's just rich of him to lecture me about getting hooked on stuff.

“Look, I'm here because Finnick said you had questions. I may have answers, so sit there like a good little girl, and listen.”

“Is not like I have a choice,” I snap dully.

“Don't get cute, Sweetheart, I can always tell your doctors you're ready for them now.” He threatens.

I clamp up my mouth, scowling something fierce, but he just sits back almost boring, staring at me. Once he's satisfied I won't talk back, he starts.

“Peeta's progress has been monitored closely by a host of doctors. They give him tests to measure his mind’s maturity every so often, but the results are always scattered all over the place. There's no real pattern for his responses. Sometimes it's like talking to the old Peeta, sometimes he's 12. He and I had a small argument not long ago, and I know for a fact, the real him was in control then. He was mad at me for all the right reasons, he was rational and articulated, and after we reached an understanding, he was mentally and physically drained.

“Those bastards in the Capitol did a real number on him.” He sits straighter, rubbing his stubbled chin. “He wants to be close to you all the time. He's very anxious to talk to you. I honestly don't know what to expect once he does. He's regained a big chunk of his memories, but some are either still missing or still tainted by Capitol’s tampering. He may get violent, but I doubt he'll be a danger to you. He remembers how he feels about you all too well.” He stands up, “Tread carefully, Sweetheart. He doesn't need to dwell in what ifs. I'll bring him over after supper. Try and get some rest.”

I'm left by myself again, but just for a few minutes, because soon a group of nurses descend on me, poking, asking questions, making me move my arms and legs, and dialing down my morphling drip… I guess Haymitch was onto something after all, too bad for Johanna. Meanwhile my mind is still wrapped up in Peeta.

From all the things I've heard about his recovery, I'm most anxious to see his reaction when he remembers the awful ways I've treated him since we were tossed into the games. I've taken his steadiness, his warmth and love for granted, now that I'm faced with the possibility of losing it all… I'm not sure I’ll be able to stand it.

 

* * *

 

I dozed off after my third round of check ups, I was exhausted and by the time my mother was able to enter my room, I could barely keep my eyes open. She simply did a quick survey of me, caressing my cheeks, asking how I felt, and then telling me to try and get on my side so she could reach my matted hair to comb and braid it.

It's been so long since I've let her do something as simple as brush the knots out of my hair, plus the tiredness of the day, I started sniffling and whimpering for no reason other than the overwhelming desire of being somewhere else, safe and asleep.

She tried to console me massaging my skull with the tips of her nimble fingers, running them through my hair before braiding it, the whole time humming a forgotten lullaby from my childhood. Say anything you want about my mother, but she always knew how to be soothing when necessary; it didn't take long for me to fall under the pull of morphling fueled slumber.

I come to groggily some time later.

I recognize the unexpected sound of slow paced scribbling over rough paper, is alien in this place, but oddly relaxing to know someone is doing something normal for once.

I rub my eye before I can crack it open.

Directly ahead, is my mother, sitting in a chair scanning a big book of some sort, the cover a stark white against the drab gray of everything else in District 13, yet I know the book belongs here. She lifts her blue, tired eyes to mine, and I can clearly see the title of her book in black, bold letters: 'Nurse Manual, Volume 3. Guidelines and Procedures. Fourth Tier Staff Only'.

I snort. My mother was one of the most sought out healers in District 12. She had great knowledge and extensive experience, everyone trusted her opinion and treatments, yet here, she only ranks as a 'fourth tier nurse' instead of a doctor, which she practically was back home; and even then, the local staff frowned upon it when they learned she was placed so high up in the nurse hierarchy, because she's an outsider who was never officially instructed in the field, as if it was somehow her fault the districts don't have the same access to education, people have here. 

It seems like it doesn't matter where we are, my mother will always be second class, even when is clear her skills surpass everyone else's.

“How do you feel?” She asks putting her manual aside.

Somewhere in the room, opposite her, the scribbling stops dead, and I hear frantic rustling. My mother throws a stare past me, towards the noise, and it stops again until she nods curtly.

“Katniss?” His voice is both shaky and eager.

I turn my head slowly, until his frame comes into my line of sight. He approaches the bed slowly, where I can make out his eyes jumping from me to my mother. He seems to be waiting for her approval, which annoys me to no end. He's technically still my fiancé! He needs no one's permission to come talk to me!

“Hey, Peeta,” I smile extending my hand in invitation.

He grabs it immediately, forgetting my mother chaperoning him.

“Hey,” he says quietly, “How are you? You've been sleeping an awful long time.” He says squeezing my hand.

“I know. Believe it or not, I'm still tired,” I chuckle.

He cracks a small smile and rubs his thumb across my knuckles. “You scared all of us. We saw you die. It wasn't fun.” He murmurs.

My mother makes a noise, a warning he understands, because his eyes fly to hers apologetically; but I don't want him to feel wrong about talking to me, so I take his face in my hand bringing his eyes back to me.

“I'm sorry I scared you. I was just trying to reason with that man, reason with Panem… I know what I did was risky, and I'm grateful I was spared once again--”

“It could have ended up with you dead!” Mother cuts me off. There's anger and fear in her voice, and I can't blame her.

I feel the same way sometimes, but I rather be in this position than have her, or Prim, Peeta or even Gale be on the receiving end of Snow’s wrath. This is a war I'll see through, for them. For all the people who need a better place to live.

Peeta tightens his hold on my hand, “Your mother is right, Katniss. We understand how much responsibility rests on your shoulders, we know there's nothing we can do to change it, but please, don't run towards danger as if your safety is of secondary concern. You will not do anyone any favors by dying like that,”

I stare at his face dumbfounded.

There's a crease running down the middle of his forehead, between his reproachful blue eyes, while a small scowl forms around his pink lips. There's an overwhelming impulse to soften the scowl with my own lips, but I push it down as savagely as I possibly can, before I stupidly act upon my urges... I'm vaguely aware of my mother's presence in the room, but all my attention is focused on Peeta, _my_ Peeta, and the sensation that he's said this to me before, in another place and time.

“You said something similar, during our first games. Real or not real?” I ask remembering what Finnick said about their game. 

His frown deepens. “Yeah. Real. After you drugged me and ran off to fight the careers on your own. I'm still not amused about it.”

“You remembered,” I choke on my feelings of relief.

But his shoulders sag a little, he releases a sigh and responds slowly, “Yes, I remember a big deal of stuff, Katniss. It's memories attached to you I have trouble recalling.”

All my relief crashes down painfully.

I remember when he stated firmly during our first games, how he remembered _everything_ about me, and how confused I felt about this declaration at the time. I never dreamed that hearing the opposite would hurt so much.

My mother takes a breath, and says quietly, “I'll leave you two to talk. Haymitch should be coming to collect Peeta soon. I'll be back before I head to out compartment for the night.” She leaves the room silently, clutching her manual to her chest.

Peeta doesn't let my hand go, not even when the silence around us is so thick we could slice it with a knife.

“I remember some things though.” He states quietly bringing my attention to his face.

“Like what?” I croak.

“You in the rain, sitting under my family's apple tree, soaked to the bone, shaking like a leaf. Your eyes sunk so deep in your skull I couldn't see the color of your irises. I threw you bread after my mother beat me for burning it, for you. Then the next day, at the school yard, I wanted to come ask you if you liked the bread, if it helped any, but then you crouched down and picked a dandelion, rolled between your fingers and ran off home.” His eyes won't meet mine.

“That's it,” I say thickly. “That's how it happened.”

He finally looks at me, “It was your idea we got engaged.” It's between a question and a statement.

I nod, bowing my head. "Real." It's my turn to flee his gaze.

“You didn't want to marry me though. You didn't love me.”

I look up at him, his thumb still caressing my knuckles.

“It wasn't you. I didn't want to marry anyone. I was afraid of the implications of a marriage. I was terrified of the fate any children born to the two of us would have to face. We would've had to train our children to be hunted down and killed, Peeta. But if we didn't convinced Snow, that we were madly in love with each other, he would've killed a lot of people in the districts. We had no choice.”

“Well, that plan worked out amazingly bad,” he says harshly, finally dropping my hand to rub his face in frustration. He then fixes me with a stare I can't quite read, and says, “Snow set us up to fail from the start, Katniss. We were just too scared and distressed to see it.” He shakes his head in lament, “Neither you, nor I could've seen his trap coming. He never intended to spare us or the districts. The only thing he wanted was to use us, creating division and mistrust between the people, and when that didn't work…”

“He struck,” I finish his thought bitterly.

I can see his point clearly now. He's right, and I'm only just slightly at peace, knowing he doesn't blame me completely for the mess we are in.

Peeta sighs deeply. “Look, I never wanted to become the huge burden I am to you. All I ever wanted, was to keep you alive and well, so you could go back to your family and enjoy a full life. I failed miserably, imposing myself on you in the process. I'm sorry. That was never my intention, and I apologize for making thing worse for you.”

“Peeta,” I place my hand on his arm, “Having you by my side… I won't ever regret that.”

Peeta tries to say something, but Haymitch's arrival interrupts him, bringing us to a sort of stalemate.

“Ready, Boy?” Haymitch asks not even bothering to acknowledge me.

“But we just started talking,” Peeta protest.

“Boy, if you're not in your room in five minutes, they'll revoke your art privileges.” Haymitch says flatly.

Peeta nods unhappy but resigned. There's no way he'll give up whatever little freedom he can get in this place, and I'm glad he won't, glancing around the room where his work stands out, making this place a lot more bearable.

“When can I come back?” He asks softly shifting his gaze to the floor.

With a small pang of disappointment, I see my collected and mature Peeta disappear behind the docile blue eyes of a shy boy, scared of angering the adults around him. I mourn him immediately, I have to remind myself he’ll come back at some point, everyone is working hard at it, but I can't help missing him, even when the brief time he was fully here, he was upset with me for not being upfront with him.

“If things with Sweetheart progress the way the doctors expect, she'll be out of here in a couple of days. For now, visitors hours stand the same. That okay with you two?”

There's no bite in Haymitch's statement, so there isn't much to disagree. Visitors hours will be enough, as always.

 

* * *

 

District 10 ships a sizable amount of beef meat, and somebody, from out of 13 of course, suggested they served it with potatoes and carrots, instead of the usual tasteless mush we get with every meal.

I'm pleasantly surprised when the next day, my tray has been adorned with a nice heap of beef chunks accompanied by cubed and grilled potatoes, carrots and the never missing turnips. The combination is quite appetizing, even when I skewer a piece of vegetable and upon putting it in my mouth I realized it's as cold as ice.

Then, Flavius makes a too positive comment about the food, “Hmm... delicious medley! I think they put a dash of salt, pepper and oregano to season the veggies!”

“The meat is tender too! So flavorful!” Venía gushes while Octavia nods enthusiastically chewing on a spoonful of food.

I eye my prep team skeptically.

Being Capitol citizens, they would know about flavorful foods, and this, is categorically not it, despite the variety. The meat is actually a little overcooked and chewy, not tough, but tender is a definitely a stretch.

I tear a piece of my stale dinner roll, and shove it in my mouth so I can't say anything that'll cause trouble, but I'm sure the preps are being exaggeratedly generous about the quality of the meal out of some kind of fear or something.

I don't like it. Not one bit.

I'm still glaring at the preps eating as if they've never tasted anything better; I'm beginning to question their sanity, but then Posy, sitting next to Hazelle on the bench opposite me, screams at the top of her lungs scurrying off the bench like a baby squirrel, and rushing in the direction of the hall entrance flapping her arms in the air.

“Gale! Gale, you're back!”

Hazelle and her other two boys follow the little girl smiling in relief.

I was told Gale wasn't in the emergency transport that brought me back to Thirteen, regardless of how much he raged and a fought and tried to stay with me after I was shot. I don't think any less of him for being left behind, there was nothing he could've done to help it, but I know him like the back of my hand. I'm sure he feels guilty and angry for not being with me while I was hurt. I would've felt the same way in his place.

I come to greet him as well, hugging him after his family get their fill. I hope he understands without words how much I don't blame him, that I understand, and I never thought he abandoned me while I needed him. I truly hope we can still communicate this way.

I'm rewarded with a bright, but tired smile.

“Hey Catnip,” he says softly, one hand wrapped around my shoulders on a side hug, while his other is full with Posy. “Is good to see you on the mend,”

“Tell me about it!” I snort in response.

We shift away from each other and make way for other soldiers trickling into the mess hall to meet with their loved ones.

It isn't until I turn back and head to our table that I notice they way Peeta’s sitting: back ramrod straight, lips pursed, eyes glued to his food while pushing the carrots he was devouring with gusto just a second ago, all around the tray.

I sit down and he keeps staring at his fork stubbornly for a while, until Gale comes to the table with a tray of his own and takes the narrow seat between me and Prim. Setting his jaw in a bratty attitude, Peeta finally pushes his tray towards Johanna, who doesn't lose any time scooping servings of his leftovers onto her own tray, lets she's spotted by the wrong soldier on patrol with a chip on his shoulder, ready to deliver punishment to the unruly Victors who don't know their place in this society.

Everyone in the table starts to greet and welcome Gale back to Thirteen, some show interest on all he's got to say about Two, and how they got the district completely under Rebel control, but he keeps trying to catch my attention over and over, while I can't keep my eyes from straying back to watching Peeta's obvious discomfort.

Gale’s in the middle of some anecdote about Commander Lyme punching the Head Peacekeeper of Two, who after being taken into rebel custody, said all rebels deserved to die painfully, when two guards come to collect Peeta.

I practically jump to grab his arm, before he could be taken away, interrupting Gale’s story and nearly knocking Prim off the bench.

“Where are you taking him?” I demand at once.

One of the soldiers gives me an aggravated look, before responding flatly, “Citizen Mellark is schedule for kitchen duty immediately following his supper, per his own request,”

I frown, is the first I've heard of this, so I protest unconvinced, “But everyone has an hour of ‘Reflection’ after supper! Why would he be permitted to work in the kitchens at this time?”

“Just here to fulfill our duties, soldier Everdeen.”

“It's alright, Katniss!” Says Peeta calmly, “I asked for this time slot, and was given permission.”

“But--”

“Katniss, it's really alright. I want to do this on my own, and I'll tell you all about it soon. I promise.” He sounds and looks so much like he did before the Quell, that all I can do is nod unhappily and watch him leave with his detail in tow.

“He looks like he knows what he's doing,” says Gale quietly, still seated at the bench eating his dinner, “I'm sure they appreciate his baking skills in there. Remember how they put Sae to cook right away when we first arrived here? They've be stupid not to take advantage of Peeta’s experience as the baker’s son, and if he requested the time himself… it means he's enjoying the work, Catnip. He'd be okay. Come finish up, I know you still have room in that stomach of yours to fill.”

I hate the soft tone Gale is using on me, it's the same one he uses on Posy when he's trying to explain something in hopes of averting an incoming tantrum.

I glare at him, but sit down and shove a fork full of food in my mouth. Its gone stone cold now, but Gale is right, I'm hungry. I'll eat everything, but I don't have to be happy about it. 

 

* * *

 

Plutarch and Coin have been at each other's throats for a good two hours, discussing Finnick and Annie’s wedding. Plutarch being his Head gamemaker self, wants a larger than life celebration, while Coin keeps shutting him down, reminding him this is not the Capitol, and everything he's proposed so far is too wasteful and impractical for 13.

I have to say, I can see where Coin is coming from with this one.

I know I have no business thinking this, but Peeta perfectly described what I would've considered my dream toasting during the Quarter Quell interviews, if there was such a thing as my dream toasting. I have no time to entertain and idea as ludicrous as marriage though, not really, while I have a score to settle with Snow.

Finally, Coin and Plutarch come to a grumbling compromise, where neither gets their way and both have been left wholly dissatisfied: there’ll be a big party; the whole district will be invited to participate somehow or another. The event will be filmed and formatted for propos, and since Plutarch wouldn't budge on the issue of wardrobe, I've been granted permission, after volunteering, to head back home to the ashes of 12, to retrieve a proper gown for Annie to wear to her wedding.

My prep team will be coming to help select the dress and everything else they deem necessary to go with it. It's both a relief and a burden to have then tag along, but I'm no stylist, regardless what was said of my fake Victor talent. 

Peeta also requested permission to come in the mission. He jumped at the opportunity to contribute to the wedding  by getting matching clothes for Finnick, but unsurprisingly, his request was denied on the spot, and every subsequent appeal, has met the same answer, the last one accompanied by the threat of suspension of his creative privileges until further notice, so he finally gave up asking.

On the morning of my departure, I come to his room at the hospital wing to say bye. We sit on the edge of his bed, facing the two way mirror at the far end of the room.

“I'll only be gone a few hours,” I try to  soothe him by squeezing his hand in mine.

“Yeah, well, forgive me if I'm not comforted by that. The last two times you’ve left me behind, horrible things happened to the both of us. Maybe you're used to it now, but I just can't keep seeing you die on a T.V. screen every time you go off on some mission that's supposedly low concern.”

The barely tamed anger in his words make me feel guilty for doing this to him again, but there isn't much I can do on his behalf to convince Coin to let him come to 12 with me, not that I’d want him to see the devastation our home district lays in anyway, but he deserves a small token of confidence from everyone.

“This time there's no threat of danger,” I try telling him, knowing this will do nothing to pacify him. “I have a big tail following me around. I'll be very well protected, and I'll be wearing Cinna’s Mockingjay armor the whole time.”

He stays silent for a moment, then narrowing his blue eyes, he asks petulantly, “Is Gale part of that big tail?”

I scowl not liking his tone. “I'm not sure. He just got back from Two a couple of days ago, and for what I know he's been assigned to training again.”

“Mmm… he'll be the first one in that hovercraft, while I have to sit here like a prisoner, but hey, I'll once again, get to watch you leave with him from afar!”

I don't miss the bitterness in his sarcastic comment, but I'm on the verge of anger myself. Why should I try to reassure him when he's acting like a brat? The only reason I'm holding back a biting comeback is because I feel bad he's being held unfairly by Coin.

I truly don't appreciate the implications about me and Gale, but I don't feel like discussing any of it in front of an audience either, so I take a deep breath, chance a glance at the two way mirror, wondering how many doctors are watching us right now, and what are they thinking of us. Peeta's reaction to Haymitch and I keeping secrets from him during our visit to 11 comes to mind, prompting me to change the subject before our tempers fly out of hand. There's no reason to have this people see  Peeta's angry side, when he already has so many problems to work through. 

“How's kitchen duty? Do you enjoy it?”

The question seems to have caught him off guard, and I see the fluctuations in the depth of his eyes. It's almost like seeing him cycle through different aged Peetas, until he settles on something younger, happier, less troubled.

“Ooh! I've been wanting to say something about that! It's the best thing ever!” He gushes merrily, his feet dangling over the side of the bed carefree, like a child’s would while talking about their favorite game. Then he smirks, a flash of mischievousness passes quickly over his bright eyes before giving me a tiny whisper, “I can't tell you, though… it's a secret!”

“A secret? What kind of a secret?” I ask curious and slightly anxious. His smile is infectious regardless the small ball of worry forming in my chest.

“It's just a secret, silly!” He rolls his eyes at me.

“Oh… well, is it a good secret?” I try again.

“It's the best!” He says making an exaggerated arm gesture. “I get to use colors and it's the best!” He says beaming.

“Colors? Like in food?”

“Shhh! You're too curious, Katniss. You know that?” He tells me with a lopsided smirk, “You need to be patient, until the surprise is ready and I can show it to the whole country,” he tells me firmly.

I'm trying to fish for an argument to give, but he holds my face in his hands so unexpectedly, that he startles me.

“Just come back safe and sound. I truly cannot see you getting hurt again on the television. It kills me not being there to protect you.” His voice is deep, male and grown up, my insides churn when I see the intensity of his stare, this is my Peeta, and I dare say, even war weathered. 

“I will come back to you in one piece, Peeta, I promise,” I'm not sure how did I manage the words, but I know they're true.

“You do that…” he says softly, his thumb caressing my cheek tenderly, “although I'm afraid, the one part of you I crave the most, is already with someone else,” he kisses my forehead, then stands and pulls me with him.

Before I can react, we've crossed his room, and are at the door already.

I want to argue with him, to demand he tells me exactly what he means by that, but the guards are already waiting, and he smiles sadly at me, “Good luck and safe travels, Katniss. Please, don't run into danger like you always do, would you?” and he himself, shuts the door closed, separating us until my return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been debating wether to keep this story a "T" rated Fic, or go into the deep end and make it an adult story... you know, canon compliant violence/gore, a fully hijacked!Peeta that could lead to some adult situations??? 
> 
> Let me know what y'all think, and if you have anything else to comment, please, do so!


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update before I'm visited by the stork this weekend!!! 
> 
> I hope this will tie everyone over, until I can return to a writing schedule again. I'm not abandoning any of my works, just taking some time to tend to my precious newborn coming this Friday! 
> 
> Special thanks to RunOn (KleeKlutch@tumblr) for making sure this chapter didn't suck!

The preps fall on their knees sobbing like little children, clutching fistfuls of soft material to their cheeks and faces, while lamenting Cinna’s loss. I was never too much for their dramatic antics, but this is one instance in which I wholeheartedly share their feelings. I never expected the sight of a closet full of gowns could have the effect of a punch in the gut, but seeing those dresses hanging there, with so much care, reminds me of their creator; the knowledge that I was the last person to see clever, quiet but wise Cinna alive is like being hit with a ton of bricks.

Suddenly I can't be in this house anymore.

It's probably all in my mind, but I swear I can smell the decaying stench of roses lingering in the air, suffocating me slowly.

I tear out of the house hunted and on the verge of a meltdown, Gale follows a step or two behind me, but I don't want Gale with me right now. I want to be alone with my misery. I want to scream without being told everything is okay and I shouldn't despair… why shouldn't I? Snow has managed to destroy almost everything I hold dear.

Before I know it, I'm outside my house, and still walking away from it without really having a destination in mind. I reach the middle of the circle, where a fountain stands, now dry and overgrown with weeds, and start pacing along it because I can't concentrate on anything except the rage growing in my chest.

“Catnip?”

“Not now, Gale, I don't want to--”

“Why don't you go into Peeta's house and get the clothes he offered for Finnick?” He interrupts my rant in a frustratingly calm voice.

I stare at him, but his face is completely blank except for the slight arching of his eyebrows, which means this suggestion is supposed to help me simmer down.

I feel my shoulders give way. I sit down heavily on the edge of the fountain, “Could you go check on the preps and ask them to come help me if they're done?” I ask tiredly.

“Sure, Catnip. But you gotta take a soldier with a communicuff with you while I'm fetching the trio of weirdos.”

“Don't call them that,” I tell him standing up and making my way to Peeta's, I'm sure some grunt will follow me inside without me seeking them out, the annoying perks of being the Mockingjay.

I was never much inside Peeta's house, only visiting during our training sessions before the quell, because Prim had set up a massage and bruise tending station in his dining room, since ours was usually taken up by my mother's ever growing parade of patients. It doesn't matter anyway, all the Victor’s houses have the same layout, and knowing where Cinna stored my Victory Tour clothes- in the basement- I figure that's where I'll find Peeta’s suits as well. Portia and Cinna were a team, just as much as Peeta and I. They would've decided together the best place to put away our outfits.

I make a beeline for the basement, but right when my hand is twisting the door knob, I stop. I wouldn't know what I'm looking for without the preps, and to be honest, I really don't feel like going through Peeta's clothes alone. He deserves his time to mourn Portia just as much as I needed time to mourn Cinna.

I take a step back, bumping into my chaperone, some wiry man with hair so short, he should just go ahead and shave it off completely. In the blink of an eye, he's shoved me behind himself, pointing his gun at the door, as if there was some threat behind the heavy wood panel.

“Soldier, stand down,” I call with as much authority as I can muster. “I decided to leave this room for last, and go gather things somewhere else.”

The soldier lowers his gun, and utters a very flat “Copy. Next time advise, soldier Everdeen.”

“Um… copy as well.” I respond giving the man’s impassive face a cursory glance.

There's something I've always been curious about Peeta, and never really had the time or occasion to see. Ideally, he'd be by my side is I climb the stairs to the upper floor of his house, and although my imagination has never been too wild, I pretend, in my head, that he's in fact walking with me, explaining how he’s made the place home for himself. My mother and Prim tried and succeeded making my Victor’s house home for them when we first moved to the village. I never allowed myself think of this place as such, always too scared of the price I've paid to get it in the first place.

My winnings from the games will forever be tainted in the blood of the other tributes, even those I had no direct hand in killing. Maybe Peeta felt the same way about his winnings too, except he knew how to balance out the bad; after all, he tried giving Rue and Thresh’s families some of our money. He's naturally generous, always looking out for the people in need.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I conjure up his voice in my head, and instantly can hear him, making a witty remark about how we lived in cookie cutter houses, but nobody could convince him Haymitch's house wasn't missing a wall or two that fell from decay. I smile to myself.

And because it was Peeta, I also hear him offering to look for something still viable to eat, because he'd have to make sure my stomach was full, and like that, I'm done with this imagining game. I hate everything about Victor’s Village. I hate the feeling of being walking around a mausoleum, alone, even though Peeta is very well alive, safely away from Snow’s clutches.

Going by my own house’s set up, I think I just passed his bedroom, and I'm about to open the door to the one I suspect is his talent room. I have a talent room too, full of sketches, materials, unfinished pieces, and even a sewing machine… everything carefully placed there by Cinna’s own clever hands. Of course upon opening Peeta's talent room, I can see how everything in this place is genuinely his doing and not at all staged like mine. Every paint splatter that has been cleaned carefully, but you can still see the outline of the stain, every paintbrush properly perched in its place, every folded sheet of plastic floor saver, every tube of paint neatly place in a somewhat organized row, it all screams Peeta.

He likes order, but he wouldn't let a little chaos throw him off. Even in this, I can see his steadiness and reliability.

My chaperone stands quietly under the doorframe, eyes scanning the room and then turning to do the same for the rest of the hallway, while I take deliberately slow steps around Peeta's talent room. He's got canvases all over the place, all sizes. Some are covered, some are sitting on piles in corners, some are propped on easels and a few choiced ones are hanging from the walls.

His father, mother and brothers take a few of the specially displayed portraits, then there's one of Haymitch and Effie glaring at each other. A pang of guilt makes me move past those, all the Mellarks were lots in the bombing, and no one knows about Effie’s whereabouts. I practically run to a painting on the next wall, a landscape of the ocean from when we were in district 4, I stand there staring at the vibrant colors of the sunset he captured so perfectly, the water seems to be rippling in soft waves, and I'm surprised no salty breeze fills my nostrils and lungs. I'm speechless at how vivid the image is, I expect to get sprinkled by seawater spray at any second, which reminds me of how gifted Peeta is, to be able to recreate something he only saw for maybe 30 minutes, in such minute detail.

I sigh sadly, and move on to examine a painting of the school coach. He's in the gym, surrounded by wrestling mats and looking pleased. The couch was in charge of the few competitive sports we were allowed to practice in school. Wrestling was hands down his favorite, but he coached the girls sprint and long jump, which I was a part of.

There's me everywhere too, I'm just not inclined to stare at myself. I'm afraid I'll compared this paintings to the many sketches he's made in 13, and the difference in technique and mastery will break me.

I look around, trying to weigh my options. I have no idea what will be useful for him, let alone, what will 13 let him keep and use, so I just open my game bag wide, and pretty much fan out my arm, dumping all the paint tubs I can sweep over the edge into the bag. Then I grab a handful of brushes, a wooden palette that looks the least used, a handful of color pencils, a sketch pad, and last I pick up a heavy roll of canvas material under my arm. I'll bring him whatever they let me.

The soldier makes a face studying the way my bag bounces while I walk. I'm sure he can hear the faint noises of paint tubes, pencils and brushes shifting and tapping each other at the bottom of my game bag. He eyes the roll of canvas, but I'm relieved he doesn't offer to take it, or makes any attempt to ask to check the contents of the bag.

He steps aside to allow me passage, and without planning for it, I walk right into Peeta’s bedroom.

As if I've been here a million times before, my eyes zero in on a picture beautifully frame on his side table. His family and him together, right after we arrived from our first games as Victors. Everyone is smiling, even the witch. She actually looks proud although she's not touching him, even though she's standing right next to him. What the witch is lacking on physical closeness, the baker more than makes up for. His thick arm is practically blanketing his son, tears welling in both their blue eyes, yet their smiles could outshine the sun.

A small frown takes my forehead, Peeta has the baker’s eyes, the same shape, shade of blue, even the crackle when they're smiling, but his nose, teeth, and lips are those of his mother, you'd just never noticed it since she never smiled.

I find it strange, to see something I’ve thought as being sweet, warm and familiar, in the face of a person I've disliked most of my life. Yet, the way she stands tall, and happy… proud even, next to her family, welcoming the same son whose survival she had rated so much lower than mine, I can't help but to wonder, if there could have been any redeeming qualities to the woman, after all, she did produced a nice young man, and whatever the baker's faults, he married her.

I slip the picture in my rapidly filling bag, and start heading out, when another picture catches my eye. I approach it slowly, afraid the image will bring unwanted nasty feelings, but after studying it, I can see why he chose to display the moment. I can't say I've seen this particular picture before. It's a frozen frame of the moment in which we climbed the hovercraft’s ladder, after Claudius Templesmith declared us co-Victors of the 74th Hunger Games.

Peeta's clearly already passed out from his blood loss, his face ashen and lifeless, but the picture focuses on me; my face showing an array of contradictory emotions: relief, fear, anger, tiredness, worry, desperation, sorrow, determination. I remember how grateful I was the ladder had some sort of force field keeping us glued to the rungs, but by the looks of my hands and arms, clinging fiercely to Peeta's already limp form, anyone could think I was the one keeping him from falling to his certain death below.

I wasn't aware either, that my head had been cradled right in the hollow of his throat.

My fingers caress the image before I can prevent the motion. I'm taken aback by how our bodies seem to fit together, almost like perfectly corresponding puzzle pieces.

“Ready, Catnip?”

Gale’s smooth voice startles me.

I jump a good twenty inches back, away from the picture. I know I've piqued Gale’s curiosity, so before he make his way inside the room, I fasten the flap of my bag closed and step into the hallway.

“How long have you been here?” I ask more harshly than I mean to.

He just shrugs and answers, “Just walked in. The trio is packaging what I think is half a dozen dresses, with matching shoes and who-knows-what else, and assured me they'll be over in a minute.” He shakes his head, scowling, “I have no idea how they don't drive you insane. I spent fifteen minutes listening to them talk, and I had to step away before I screamed at them to shut it.”

I can't help it, I start laughing.

Gale stares at me quizzically for a minute, and then smiles, shaking his head. It's nice to have some levity during this times, even if there isn't anything really that funny to laugh about.

“Fine!” He puts his hands up, “Let's find that suit and get out of here.”

I nod and start walking out. He follows very close on my heel, my chaperone with the communicuff is downstairs already, I look around the hallway, and realized the door to Peeta's studio is open. I close the door tightly, sighing as I move, and then catch Gale’s frown. He doesn't say anything, and I don't dig for an explanation. Times when we are like the good ole days, friendly and comfortable with each other come far in between nowadays, there's no reason to bother it right now, if he's not saying anything. Chances are, I won't like whatever is simmering in his head anyway.

I lead him down to the ground floor, and through the corridor down the basement. Right before I can take one step down the dark stairs, my prep team comes into the house, making a ruckus. I just wait for them to reach us, and then ask, swallowing my regret, what are they grumbling about.

“We packed all the gowns in Cinna’s favorite garment bag,” said Venia with an exaggerated puff.

“Then we accommodated all the shoes in a chest that was barely big enough to fit all the boxes, plus the beauty products you still had in the house…” supplied Octavia on the verge of tears.

“We even found a jewelry box filled with very fitting pieces we thought would work best on sweet Annie, but those infuriating soldiers made us undo all the packagings, and then told us we could only bring one, Katniss… ONE!” Shrieked Flavius fanning himself dramatically.

“One what?” I asked confusedly, trying to figure out why was my prep team so flustered.

After both Venia and Octavia rushed to rub comfort on Flavius back, and Octavia tried blotting his angry tears away, Venia responded.

“One bag of course!” She said calmly. “With one gown, one set of shoes, accessories, the minimum amount of makeup sets…”

“They vetoed my hair curlers!” Flavius whined.

I'm at a loss for words, but I manage to suggest we just compare all of Peeta's suits against what we know will fit Finnick, and then once we've narrowed it down to one set of everything for Finnick, we will revisit the dresses and choose.

The team grumbles about it, but they get it done all the same. Gale's glowering doesn't help one bit, neither does his annoyed glares, and I so close to lose my temper on him, I decide to just dive into the clothes choosing wholeheartedly, which makes the preps a little happier.

We pack everything neatly into a single crate, that the spare soldiers load into the hovercraft in one swoop. I really don't understand why deny the preps they're luggage, since there's plenty room in the craft, but at this rate, nothing 13 does surprises me anymore.

The whole way back, all the preps can talk about is how much they enjoyed seeing all the pretty things back in 12, mainly Cinna's gowns and the few paintings adorning Peeta's house. They rave about a colorful portrait of me spinning in my red dress from our first games’ interview. Like little children, all three of them nod off soon after, and the hovercraft is finally left in blessed silence for maybe 20 minutes, while we circle the perimeter before landing back in the district’s hidden landing pad.

“I think is weird,” Gale says under his breath.

“What is?” I ask distractedly, rummaging through my bag, counting the few bandages and pouches of herbal medicine my mother had left at the house, knowing full well I have to surrender all of it to 13 upon arrival.

“All the pictures he's got of you.” He says trying to appear nonchalant, but I know him too well to buy it.

I turn my face to him. He's not looking at me, but at the bare wall of the hovercraft in front of us, he continues his thought as if he's trying to decipher a puzzle to himself, “He's got sketches of you back in 13, and during the Victory Tour, everyone fanned over his paintings of you because no one wanted to dwell on his depictions of the games. I mean, everyone knows he's good with a brush and paints… but, why does every portrait have to be of you?” He finally faces me, his scowl and tone just makes him sound petty for some reason, and then I see the shift of insecurity and jealousy deep in his gray eyes, so much like my own.

“Gale, he's supposed to be my fiancé. We're the star-crossed-lovers of district 12. His victor talent is painting, it was probably required he painted me. I'm sure Haymitch had something to do with it.” I try to sound indifferent, although I have no idea if any of the things I just said could be true. I've never thought of how it must look to my best friend, who apparently has loved me for a while, that another boy has so many pictures of me at his disposal, when he's got none.

But, I guess the balance is tipped to Gale's side. While Peeta has portraits to look at, Gale gets to hang around me, get away from 13 in missions, fight alongside me, talk to me whenever he wants, and I'm back to thinking Gale is being petty.

Nothing has ever been even or fair between any of us, and the niggling sensation that I'm responsible for that unfairness, makes my stomach pitch with guilt. I wish I could free both of them from their feelings for me, but I can't. The truth is, I don't want to let go of either.

“I don't know, Catnip… the number of pictures of you, just seem a bit… obsessive,” he says looking away, scowl deepening in his features.

I can't keep entertaining this line of conversation. “I don't know what to tell you, Gale.” I snap while undoing the safety harness of my seat brusquely, “My mother keeps a picture of father, I guess the same principle applies to Peeta. Pictures are all he can have, who cares if he's got a million of them?”

I finally tear myself from my seat, and before Gale can say or do anything else, I stalk straight for my prep team, huddled together over a notebook they fished from my closet with tips on makeup Cinna hand wrote specifically to teach me the basics in case I ever needed his advice on the matter and I couldn't reach him on the phone. I look at the book angrily, spent and sad. I need a friend’s advice right about now, and all Cinna's left me was a handful of instructions on how to look camera ready for a Capitol audience.

I cross my arms and legs once I'm seated and buckled in, closing my eyes, I wish to fall asleep and never wake up from this mess.

 

* * *

 

 

Finnick’s the only familiar face waiting at the landing pad to welcome us back. He was so eager to help unload our goodies, he couldn't wait doing whatever was scheduled on his wrist for the day, he somehow got himself assigned to train in the docks. As far as I know most people hate working the docks unloading hovercrafts, but for Finnick, the hard labor was worth it, if only for the significance of the cargo of my hovercraft held for him and Annie: the freedom to marry their true love.

How can I fault him for that? He deserves to be normal, after all he's been through. There are few things nowadays that I can count as pleasure, seeing Finnick laugh so freely while hauling away the boxes from the craft, is possibly one of my favorites. He looks younger, content, there's a sparkle in his eyes I've never seen before, and even though I still envy the certainty of his feelings for Annie, I can't help but to laugh with him when he starts cracking jokes about needing a manicure, and whether he’d be allowed to wear his pajamas to training, since they look just like our working jumpsuits.

Half an hour goes by pretty quickly, when you enjoy the menial task of cargo moving, and get to do it with a friend. Gale casts a few glances my way while helping on the other side of the galley, but he doesn't approach, and I'm relieved he doesn't try to talk to me, I'm still ticked at his implications on our trip back, and I think we just need some space to cool off, before something is said, that can't be taken back.

“So… where's Annie right now?” I ask during a lull in conversation.

“Head doctor session. At least for another hour, then we are supposed to meet with Plutarch and the prep team to look at whatever outrageous fashion you smuggled into our conservative new home,” There's all kind of humor in his voice, although he's trying real hard to make a disgusted face.

I can't help it. I snort a loud laugh and cover my mouth behind the back of my hand. “Rich! Coming from the boy that looks pretty in almost anything he wears… even hospital robes!”

“Hey, I'll have you know looking this tanned five levels underground is an achievement!” Finnick counters, but we are both laughing, so I can't take him seriously.

“Some people are just that lucky.” Says Boggs from behind us, not dryly, but also not completely joking. “Everdeen, once you're done here, you have a free period, but I want you to report to training before supper, understood?” There isn't any bite in his command, but I'm guessing he's not really supposed to give me free time when it's still early enough to join any other activity I would've been assigned to anyway.

I'm not about to waste my little reprieve, so I respond “Yes, sir!” and mouth a small thank you that only he can see in our position.

Boggs nods, and moves on to the next group of people to give his instructions.

“So, how are you going to spend your rare free time?” Asks Finnick picking up another box and placing it on a dolly.

“I'm not sure,” I say mulling the question in my head, passing a smaller box to Finnick to stack up with the rest. “Maybe, I'll go downtown to the hospital, try and see if Prim is not so busy.”

“Good…” he trails off quietly. He sets a small duffle bag labeled “fragile” on bold letters, on top of his stack of boxes, and then stands still for moment, eyes trained on me long enough to make turn to him.

“I'm not sure if I'm supposed to tell you this or not, but he started training with the rest of the new soldiers.”

My whole body stiffen. “What do you mean he started training?” My voice is low and gravelly, I'm sure I'm scowling worse than ever.

“He got scheduled to training this morning, and two out of his four head doctor sessions got replaced with training. I'm not sure if that'll become a trend for him, or what is 13’s agenda in all this.”

“And Haymitch? What did he say?” I demand dumping a burlap bag full of herbs on the ground, unceremoniously.

Finnick shrugs, “He wasn't happy, but there isn't much he can do about it, not if he wants to keep things from progressing disfavorably for Peeta.”

“It isn't right! He shouldn't be training, that wasn't part of the deal!” I'm so angry, but it doesn't matter. As my words sink in, I realize, I never bargained for his position in 13, just that he wouldn't get tried for treason or worse, punished as a traitor for calling a ceasefire.

Any way I spin it in my head, if his doctors say he's mature enough to stand training, that's what they'll have him do. 13 only requires a recruit to be age fourteen to become a soldier, Peeta is well over the age, and mentally, he has improved more and more every day. There's really nothing I can do at this point to convince Coin to leave him alone.

I deflate, my anger dissipating.

“I guess I'll go to my compartment and rest a bit.” I mumble.

“Katniss,” Finnick says in a soothing voice, “We have to believe, things will be better now. It's the only way we’ll be able to see this whole thing through.”

I nod.

I don't agree, nothing has ever worked they way I've hoped, not the games, not Peeta Mellark, not Snow, and I'm sure not even Coin or this war.

“See you later,”

“Okay.”

I'm walking away as slowly as I can force myself to move. I don't want to rise suspicions from anyone, but as soon as I'm out of sight, I start running down halls and stark corridors, until I'm locked away in tiny maintenance closet. The only words I allow in my head are, “I'm Katniss Everdeen, I'm 17 years old, I survived two Hunger Games, so did Peeta, plus a hijacking, Peeta's alive in District 13, he's training to be a soldier, he has no business being a soldier!” The truth is no kid has any business being a soldier.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Down in The Valley’ is a popular Appalachian Mountain Air who's author I couldn't find. The lyrics vary from singer to singer as this kind of folk songs do, so I took the liberty to use only two verses in this fic. Although we have no way of knowing if this is the specific song SC referred to by ‘The Valley song’ it's pretty fitting, and I've used it in other stories as well. 
> 
> My Beta pointed out, there's an inconsistency in Peeta's speech patterns. He sometimes sounds younger than others, and as I told her, I want to point out here: that inconsistency is completely on purpose. Peeta's mind is blocked, but everything is still there, as we will see through the story. 
> 
> I will try and complete the remaining of this fic along with the chapters of Pixie and Twelveton Abbey that will soon be updated. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think about this story here, or over on tumblr @Alliswell21 :)


End file.
